


Beautiful

by Talithax



Category: CI5: The New Professionals
Genre: Angst, Depression, Explicit Language, Healing, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, POV First Person, Sexual Assault, Sexual Content, Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-08-30
Updated: 2011-08-30
Packaged: 2017-10-23 06:13:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 43,716
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/247106
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Talithax/pseuds/Talithax
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An assignment going horribly wrong sends Chris on a downward spiral that threatens not only his relationship with Sam but also every other aspect of his life.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Beautiful

**Author's Note:**

> Written in, oh, I don't know, 2002 at the absolute latest and posted due to the fact these two are still my OTP and because to this very day I owe a lot to the fandom.

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Beautiful  
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“Strip.”

Yeah. Right. And then for my second trick I’ll wind back my watch and start the day afresh.

Stupid fucker.

Just because everything’s stacked in his favour doesn’t mean that I have to play nice… Or bend over and take it.

I stare at Colton impassively, my cold eyed gaze hopefully hiding the obliterating sense of dread in the pit of my stomach.

“Fuck you,” I hiss icily, not caring if I’m playing with fire. Not caring whether I live or die either for that matter. He shoots me, I’m dead. Sam dies and I might as well go into the ground with him. Save on the burial costs that way.

Assuming -- hoping, praying -- Sam’s still alive.

“You’re not in the position to make promises you can’t keep, Mr Keel,” Colton smirks, his close-set eyes glittering with evil intent. “Now, I’m only going to tell you one more time before I lose my tempter and lodge another bullet in your partner. He’s still alive… for now. It’s quite ironic if you care to think about it. You CI5 agents are so loyal to each other, a bit like stupid slobbering dogs really, blindly following the other and ending up in places where you’ve got no right to be sticking your noses, and now you hold your partner’s life in your hands. You play nice, he might live. You push my buttons and what remains of his life will be spent in even greater pain than he’s currently in. Do I make myself clear, Mr Keel? Now that I’ve had my say, *strip*!”

Colton, like every petty criminal with delusions of grandeur, likes the sound of his own voice. I think the sick bastard gets off on it. Probably even talks to himself while jerking off.

I hesitate, not knowing what to do. Do I believe him when he says Sam’s still alive and play whatever games he has up his sleeve or do I dig my heels in, all but asking for death?

Under, for the extreme want of a better description, normal circumstances it would take more than staring down the barrel of a Smith & Wesson held in the hands of a borderline sociopath to make me seriously consider taking my clothes off.

This however in no way falls into the category of anything that could possibly be construed as normal. Not even fucking close in fact.

The Smith & Wesson in Colton’s podgy paw is *my* Smith & Wesson and the same gun that was used to shoot Sam. Colton’s two henchman, both who have to be ex-forces and who’d be lucky to have an I.Q. point between them, could snap me like a twig. There’s no one home behind their eyes but that doesn’t mean I’d be able to successfully take them on. Although I can’t see through their bulk I know that somewhere behind them, lying on the cold concrete floor, is Sam. I also know that if he’s not already dead then he’s slowly bleeding to death. Two shots hit him in the chest. Two shots from my gun, the one I lost in a fight with a middle-aged fucker called Colton.

Christ. As if my failure and humiliation wasn’t complete already he now wants to add the icing on the cake by making me strip.

Great. Just fucking fantastic.

There’s a whole chapter in one of the many training manuals I’ve got littering the bookshelves at home devoted to the psychological impact of enforced nudity. I almost wish now that I’d taken the time to read it.

Okay, okay… I take my clothes off and he stares and belittles me and… And what?

I don’t want to know.

I really don’t want to know.

“Not one for snap decisions are you, Mr Keel?” Colton queries conversationally, closing the distance that separates us and trailing the barrel of the gun down my cheek. The feel of the cold metal causes me to shiver involuntarily. I can’t even look him in the eye. If there wasn’t a brick wall behind me I’d throw pride to the wind and take a step back.

“How do I know Sam’s really still alive?” I demand loudly, moving my head away from the gun and forcing myself to glance at Colton. Impotent rage mixes with the fear and worry, causing my knees to feel as though they want to give way beneath me.

“You can’t stall for ever, Mr Keel,” Colton replies, nonetheless stepping back and gesturing to his arguably house-trained rock apes. “Jackson, Peters, show our friend here that his beloved partner is indeed still in the land of the living.”

Jackson and Peters, proving that even brain dead thugs can be taught to obey orders, shift apart, allowing me to see the crumpled body of my partner. And the blood… Oh God. So much blood. Swallowing the nausea I can feel rising in my throat, I watch with mounting horror as one of the men lumbers over to Sam and none too gently kicks him in the thigh.

“Oi!” I exclaim, outraged and wanting to do nothing more than run over to Sam and take him in my arms. “Tell your pet gorilla to be a bit more careful!”

“You wanted to see whether your partner was still alive, Mr Keel,” Colton responds cheerfully, calmly pointing the gun at my chest. “You did not specify how you wanted this proven to you. Look. He moves, sluggishly I will admit, but he is however moving. If you were to concentrate you could possibly even hear him moaning through the haze of pain in his head.”

“You’re dead!” I snarl, what little remains of my control fracturing at the hopelessness of the situation as I see that Colton’s correct. Sam *is* moving, if that’s what you call trying to curl up into the foetal position. “You’re fucking dead! When I get my hands on you I’m…”

“Now, now Mr Keel,” Colton interrupts smugly. “Once again you’re attempting to make promises that you have no hope of keeping.”

“Fuck you,” I snap angrily. “Fuck you and fuck your gorillas too! Kill us and CI5 will be even more determined to chase your useless asses to the end of the Goddamn earth!” I’m so worked up that if I was sure I’d reach him before he had time to pull the trigger I think I’d be able to kill him with my bare hands.

Colton makes ‘tut-tutting’ noises and shakes his head. “Language, Mr Keel,” he sighs melodramatically. “And to think we mere plebs are led to believe CI5 are the best of the best. Perhaps they are and it’s just you two that are inept, is that it? I’m sorry. That’s presumptuous of me. Your partner, if he hadn’t changed direction to save you, seemed to have everything under control. That in turn leads me to believe that it must just be yourself bringing the good name of CI5 down…”

That hurts.

And the reason it hurts is because it’s true.

If I hadn’t been distracted by the cat or whatever it was running along the warehouse floor Colton wouldn’t have been able to catch me by surprise.

It’s all my fault.

I got into trouble. Colton got my gun. Sam came to rescue me. Colton shot Sam.

Simple.

Sam’s going to die and it’s all my fucking fault!

Is there any wonder I don’t particularly care if Colton kills me?

“I…” I have nothing left to say and Colton knows it. He’s so weasely that he can most likely smell my defeat in the air.

“You’re really trying my patience, Mr Keel,” Colton states, the tone of his voice darkening. “I can see that you know things are hopeless but I don’t know whether you are truly aware just how utterly hopeless they really are. As you know, I know how CI5 operate. Radio contact between yourself and base is down and by my reckoning the cavalry will be beating down the door in a little over thirty minutes. The helicopter that will take my men and I far away from here will be here in just less than thirty minutes. Allow me to do the math for you Mr Keel, that gives me twenty-five minutes for you to earn your partner the best chance of survival he has. You behave and Jackson and Peters will leave him alone. You play games and I let them kick him around a bit. Think about it. You don’t want your partner’s bleeding body to be used as a football by my, as you call them, gorillas, now do you?”

“No,” I whisper, not even having to think about my answer. Colton’s right. About everything. CI5 are probably in the process of mobilising right at this very moment but it will still take a while for them to get here. They know where we were going, to the disused warehouse on the docks where intelligence thought Colton was storing the drugs, but it was only supposed to be a surveillance mission. Colton wasn’t supposed to be here.

Fuck! Fuck, fuck, fuck!

What a Goddamn fucking disaster.

“I take it then, Mr Keel, that you are ready to play nice?” Colton prompts, making a point of tapping the gun on his watch. “Time is of the essence I hope you realise.”

“Yeah, whatever,” I sigh defeatedly, reaching for the buttons on my shirt. There’s nothing else for me to do, I *have* to play Colton’s nefarious games in exchange for any hope Sam has of surviving.

“Good boy,” Colton murmurs condescendingly. “You may be slow but at least you finally made the right decision.”

I ignore him, wearily accepting that getting angry isn’t going to achieve anything and resigning myself to what’s to come. He’s not going to kill me, I know that. It’s true that Colton, ex-DI Aaron Colton of Special Branch, knows how CI5 operates. Just as he knows if they have dead agents on their hands that they’ll move heaven and earth until they have justice. No. Not justice. Retribution. They won’t stop until they have Colton’s lifeless body on a slab in a morgue somewhere. The death of an agent is not taken lightly. Torture, assault… rape… however come part and parcel with the badge and gun license. We survive, we get the best treatment money can buy until we’re suitably patched up and ready to fight another battle. Justice will still be sought, only not so fervently.

Rape.

Is that what he’s got in mind?

Oh well. So be it. I’m fucked as it is so why not take it to its logical conclusion.

My fingers not wanting to obey my command to work, it seems to take me ages to undo my shirt. Colton for once remains silent, his beady eyes watching me intently, his thin lips pressed into a smirk.

A bullet would be too good for the bastard. Right now my loathing for him knows no bounds. His blood, still warm as it flows out of his dying body, on my hands would be like Christmas coming early.

I undress quickly, forcing my fingers to do as they’re told. Colton doesn’t want a strip show, he just wants me naked and vulnerable. His gaze on my bare chest as I throw my shirt to the floor makes my skin crawl even before I bend down to take off my shoes. Jackson and Peters are watching too. I’m not shy but I wish the ground would open up and swallow me whole.

Shoes off, I pull my socks off as well before straightening and reaching straight for my belt. Just because I don’t feel it doesn’t mean I can’t at least *pretend* to be in control. Inanely, as I undo my belt and unzip the fly of my jeans, I’m struck by the thought that I hope I’m not wearing embarrassing underwear. Not that it’d matter a damn, but I just don’t want to give them any more ammunition than I have to.

Pushing my jeans down, I suppress a sigh of relief when I see I’m wearing a pair of black cotton 2X(ist) briefs. Silly, I know, but at the moment I’ll take any hint of a silver lining that I can get. Bending down, I pull my jeans fully off and kick them across the floor to join my shirt. Knowing that I have to I then, without pausing to have second thoughts, swiftly take off my briefs.

Naked in the cold air, my body reacts accordingly. Some parts stand to attention while others shrivel. I tell myself it’s only natural, that I can’t help it, and defiantly lift my head to look Colton in the eye.

Oh God…

Gross.

He’s leering at me. Please don’t tell me he likes what he sees.

Come on. Get it over with. Turn me around and make me grab my ankles. Insult me. Laugh and point. Whatever. Just fucking get on with it!

“Very nice,” Colton purrs appreciatively, his eyes roaming across my body. “Very nice indeed, Mr Keel. I can see that what you lack in intelligence is made up for in beauty. Beautiful but stupid, your life would nonetheless be easier than that of the ugly but intelligent. Tell me… How did you manage to get into CI5? Did you allow Malone to sodomise you in exchange for becoming one of the chosen ones?”

Wonderful. He’s just managed to make everything just that little bit worse. Urgh. What an awful mental image.

“CI5 headhunted me,” I mutter, shrugging insolently. “Believe it or don’t, I don’t really care.”

“I do find that incredibly difficult to believe Mr Keel, I must admit,” Colton replies, suddenly gesturing for his gorillas to close in on me. “Cuff his arms behind his back and put him on his knees,” he commands as I’m grabbed roughly by the shoulders and my arms are wrenched painfully behind my back. Metal cuffs, warmed by being in Jackson’s -- I think -- pocket, are then snapped tightly around my wrists. Quite frankly I don’t know why they’re bothering. It’s not like I’m going anywhere. A booted foot kicking me in the back of the knees sends me toppling inelegantly to the floor. I’ve barely had time to catch my breath before I’m being dragged into a kneeling position, my face on level with Colton’s flabby paunch.

My heart beats a tattoo of disgust as he reaches down and unzips his fly. The cock he lovingly pulls out very nearly makes me laugh. If not for the dull sense of self-preservation still coursing through my veins I would have. Typical though. I think there’s a correlation between having a small cock and suffering from extreme delusions of grandeur.

I know what he expects but don’t so much as move a muscle. He’ll have to tell me. Although I know it’s inevitable I want him to command me to take his cock in my mouth. Again it’s only a small thing, but I don’t want to be seen as though I’m -- God forbid -- doing it willingly.

“Go on, I think you know what to do,” Colton grunts, pushing his half-erect and still tiny cock further in my face. “Blow me or I lose interest and watch Jackson and Peters kick what’s left of your partner.”

“You sure say the nicest things,” I murmur facetiously before, with extreme reluctance, doing what I’m told. His cock at least is clean. I note this clinically, trying to do everything in my power to detach from what’s happening, what I’m being made to do. Nothing works though. I’ve got the cock of a man I despise in my mouth and there’s nothing I can do to escape it. Although I know how to pleasure a man I don’t waste any expertise or effort in blowing Colton. It’s hard enough controlling the desire to bite the bastard without actually having to think about what I’m doing.

“Oh yeah… You’re good,” Colton grunts, thrusting blindly into my mouth. If he was even a normal size he’d be choking me, but he’s not. Small cock for a small man. “Should have known really. The beautiful ones always know what they’re doing. It’s what gets them through life. You are good though, I’ll grant you that. Know what you’re doing too. I don’t like men as a rule, prefer a nice juicy cunt and a big pair of titties to grab on to myself. If I closed my eyes though you could be anyone. I’m not going to however, the look of hatred in your eyes is actually adding to the experience. You really loathe me, don’t you? Good. Do you know I once tried out for CI5 and the bastards knocked me back? You lot think you’re all so fucking perfect. Well let me tell you…”

For fuck’s sake! On and on and on he goes. Prattle, prattle, prattle. So he’s humiliating me because CI5 humiliated him. Excellent. Good to know. Drowning Colton’s ravings out, I suck that little harder and pray that the combined effort of my mouth and the sound of his own voice is bringing him to the edge of completion. To my relief it appears to be working and I sense that he’s near climax.

Hallelujah.

Not wanting him coming in my mouth, I try to pull back but rough hands closing around my shoulders hold me firmly in place. I struggle but it’s to no avail. His seed spills hotly onto my tongue. I start to gag, wanting to spit it out. The same rough hands clamp down over my mouth and nose, forcing me to swallow or black out. Lack of air makes me panicky. I swallow harshly, his taste burning a path down my throat. He tastes like acid. I now hate him more than ever, knowing that I’ll forever carry his taste in me.

Their task completed successfully, Jackson and Peters abruptly release me and I slump to the floor, retching pathetically. It’s too late though. There’s nothing left in my mouth. For the first time I want to cry.

Sam… Oh God… I’m so sorry. I’m sorry for everything. Please don’t die. Even if you don’t want to have anything to do with me ever again you’ve got to live! Please… I need you to live. I can’t have your death on my conscience as well as this. I just can’t.

“My compliments, Mr Keel,” Colton states grandly, zipping himself back up. “You really are a man of hidden talents. Hidden talents that I insist you must share with my men here. By my watch we still have fifteen minutes, plenty of time.”

What?

You’ve got to be fucking kidding me. CI5 fucked Colton over and he’s fucked me over in return, isn’t that enough…

No. Obviously not. The hands dragging me once again into a kneeling position and the already erect cock appearing in front of me tells me that no, it’s not enough.

“Liked what you saw I take it,” I sneer, glaring up at the man I think is Peters.

“Shut up and suck, faggot!” Peters grunts truly eruditely as Jackson takes matters into his own hands. Hitting me on the back of the head, I lurch forward and end up nose deep in Peters’ pubic hair.

Fine. I can do this.

And I do. I blow both of them while Colton watches. For once he’s silent. Either he’s ran out of things to say or, and this is more likely, he knows he won’t be heard over all of the grunting and groaning coming out of his gorillas. They’ve both watched far too many porno’s in their time, that’s for sure. Not being as… special… as their boss, Jackson and Peters aren’t allowed the honour of coming in my mouth and instead make a performance over shooting all over my neck and chest. Watching their seed drip and slide down my body is almost worse than having had to swallow Colton’s.

I’m now too numb to even want to cry.

My mouth tastes like a sewer and my knees are so cold that I can longer feel them.

Please… Leave me alone now. You’ve all had your fun now just fuck off and leave me alone with my shame.

“Hmm… Five minutes to go until the helicopter arrives,” Colton murmurs, walking over and standing above me. “What shall we do? Aaah… I know!” he exclaims, smiling triumphantly. “It’s only fair that we return the wonderful favour Mr Keel’s just so generously shared with us all, don’t you agree men?”

I have *got* to stop thinking things can’t get worse.

“I ain’t blowin’ him,” Jackson scowls, glowering at me, disgust written all over his piggy face.

Colton shrugs, his eyes narrowing as he looks down at me. “Bring him off by hand then,” he mutters, “it’s of no consequence to me how you do it, so long as you do it.”

His orders given, Colton steps back and waits for his gorillas to obey. He doesn’t have to wait long. Peters grabs me under the arms and hauls me upright while Jackson stalks over to a metal column running from the floor to the ceiling. Apparently sharing the same thought, Peters laughs approvingly and drags me across to the column. My defeat all consuming, I put up no defence.

What will be will be.

The cuff is taken off my left wrist and I’m pushed hard up against the column before my wrists are re-cuffed behind me. I’m now on display for all to see. I can see Sam but don’t even know if he’s still alive

Jackson and Peters, who don’t appear to have mastered the game of ‘Rock, Paper, Scissors’ hesitate over who’s going to draw the short straw and do as Colton’s commanded. It’d be an outright lie to say I cared who loses.

“Honestly!” Colton explains impatiently, striding over and standing directly in front of me. “You two are really quite pathetic,” he adds, scowling at his men. “Surely you both know all there is to know about hand jobs!” With that, and without waiting for a response, Colton reaches out and grabs my cock in the palm of his hand. He squeezes and rubs it, all the time looking at me smugly, as I fight arousal with every fibre of my body. Not even knowing it’s reflexive makes me want to give the bastard the satisfaction. His touch is neither gentle nor too rough. He knows what it is he’s doing.

“By fighting you are merely extending my own pleasure Mr Keel,” Colton murmurs, smiling. “The longer you hold off the longer your torture continues and the more I get out of the experience. Think about it. You know I’m right,” he continues, all the time slowly jerking me off.

He’s right.

Again.

Fighting him is achieving nothing. He’ll enjoy himself whatever I do.

Closing my eyes, I give up control and am hard within moments. For a second I toy with imagining that it’s Sam touching me but quickly push the idea out of my mind. Dragging what we have… *had*… into this sordid arena is just wrong. Given that I know it will now be a thing of the past I can’t tarnish the precious memories that are all I’m going to be left with.

Control gone, it doesn’t take much to bring me to climax. I come silently, my seed joining that which already on my chest. There’s none of the familiar pleasure. Colton laughs and he wipes his hand across my thigh. I don’t even have it in me to open my eyes and look at him. They’re going to leave me here to be found like this, I know it. The final touch.

The sound of the helicopter arriving is like music to my ears. I listen to the sounds of footsteps running across the concrete floor until I can no longer hear them. Only then, with the hum of the helicopter rising overhead, do I open my eyes and look over to Sam.

My relief at seeing that his chest is still rising and falling as he breathes laboriously is muted by the fact that his eyes are open and he’s staring at me.

Me…

His partner and lover… Seemingly uninjured yet strung up naked like some sort of scarecrow and covered in semen.

A lone tear falls down my cheek as I see through myself through his eyes.

I told you, Sam…

I told you loving me was a mistake, that I’d only let you down…

~*~

Slumping heavily in the proffered chair, I avoid the paid for gleam of concern in the psychiatrist’s pale blue eyes and sigh loudly. “Okay, let’s get this over and done with,” I state dismissively as Dr Jenkins shuts the door and takes a seat behind his pretentious mahogany desk. “I have places I’d rather be.”

“Such as?” Jenkins queries calmly, his Mont Blanc fountain pen poised over his sheet of crisp white paper. “Where would you rather be, Mr Keel?”

“Call me Chris,” I mutter, not adding that being called Mr Keel reminds me of Colton.

“Okay then, *Chris*, where would you rather be?” Jenkins repeats, watching me closely and writing something no doubt telling about my posture on his paper.

“My partner is fighting for his life in surgery,” I scowl, annoyed at the stupidity of his question, “I’d rather be in the waiting room waiting for the doctor to tell me whether he’s going to make it or not. Where do you think I’d rather be?”

“I can arrange for news to brought here as soon as there is some,” Jenkins replies smoothly, hoping to placate me. “Would that assist in making you feel more at ease?”

“No,” I reply bluntly. “It wouldn’t.”

It goes without saying that I really don’t want to be here. I argued, that this was nothing but an exercise in pointless futility, but Malone insisted. So here I am. Being assessed. Again. If I had a car for everytime I’ve had to jump through hoops placed in front of me by psychiatrists I’d have a fleet to rival that of Avis’.

“What then would it take to make you relax, Chris?” Jenkins asks, his years of training making feigning interest in me come to him naturally. When our session is up he’ll complete his report and promptly forget about me. I fail to see why I have to talk to him. He means as little to me as I do to him.

“Nothing,” I respond flatly, scrunching myself further into my seat. “Nothing will make me relax as I don’t want to be here and should be there for my partner when he comes out of surgery. This is merely wasting your time and mine.”

I don’t add that I would give everything I own for a hot shower and a toothbrush. Close to two hours have past since we were rescued from the warehouse and I still haven’t been allowed the time to shower and clean my teeth. Dried semen still clings uncomfortably to my chest and I can still taste Colton in my mouth. I feel disgusting. And the fucking medical I had to endure didn’t help either.

I’m beginning to think that somewhere along the line I suffered a blow to the head and am now speaking in Latin. No one listens to me. I may as well be mute. I told them that I wasn’t raped but they insisted on performing an anal examination anyway. It was like having salt rubbed into a still weeping wound. When the young doctor with the latex gloves confirmed that while I was correct -- funny that -- in respect to not having been raped I nonetheless showed signs of not being… and let’s use his exact words here… ‘factory fresh’… I wanted yet again to disappear into thin air. It’s now forever in my medical records and there’s nothing I can do about.

Just like there’s nothing I can do about erasing what took place today from my memory. It’s mine now, like a permanent tattoo.

“I do not believe this to be a waste of time,” Jenkins replies, flashing me his practised smile. “What happened today will be weighing heavily on your mind. It will do you good to talk about it.”

My -- not exactly factory fresh -- ass it’ll do me good to talk about it.

“Talk about what?” I retort, making a point of yawning insolently as the psychiatrist makes another note on his paper. “There’s nothing to talk about.”

“I beg to differ, Chris,” Jenkins murmurs, fixing me with a cool stare, “You were raped…”

“God! Doesn’t anyone fucking listen to me?” I interrupt angrily. “I wasn’t raped! Haven’t you lot ever heard of communication? Ask the doctor with the cold fingers, he can tell you. I wasn’t raped. Trust me on this.”

“You were made to perform sexual acts against your will,” Jenkins responds calmly, unperturbed by my outburst. “In the eye of the law that can still be construed as rape.”

“Fuck the law,” I snap, my temper rising by the second. “Why can’t you just accept that I wasn’t raped?” Pausing, I shake my head agitatedly and glare at the psychiatrist. “Fine. Put down denial in your notes or whatever it is that you’re no doubt going to write whether it’s the truth or not. I simply don’t care,” I mutter querulously.

Jenkins once again ignores my outburst. “You were made to perform three acts of fellatio against your will before being forced to climax yourself,” he states gently, “It’s only right that you’d be upset by…”

“Upset?” I snort, scowling at the doctor. “It’s in the past. I’m alive, I’m not hurt and I don’t want to be having this conversation. It was only psychological and I’m strong enough to put it behind me.”

“There’s absolutely no need for you to be so defensive, Chris,” Jenkins murmurs, moving his piece of paper to one side and starting on a fresh page. “Whatever you’re feeling is perfectly okay. I want you to know however that you were *forced* into pleasuring those men and that there is absolutely no reason for you to bring your own sexuality into doubt over what happened.”

Christ. This honestly can’t be fucking happening. Haven’t I been through enough crap for one day?

“My sexuality?” I sneer, leaning forward and glaring at Jenkins. “You lot really don’t communicate, do you?”

Jenkins blinks at me, momentarily confusion written over his face. “I’m sorry, I don’t quite understand where you’re…”

“My medical report!’ I interrupt drily. “Don’t know if it was written in quite these terms but it confirms that I’m not exactly factory fresh.”

“Excuse me? I really don’t know what you’re talking about,” Jenkins replies, looking at me blankly. He’s so behind the eight ball that the fountain pen is motionless in his hand for the first time since he picked it up.

I sigh, disbelief at the situation doing nothing to calm my temper. “I’m on the homo side of bisexual,” I drawl matter-of-factly. “Or, to put it in your language, I’m a four on the Kinsey Scale. I like men and I take it up the ass by choice. I may not have wanted to, but I *knew* what it was I was doing. If I’d wanted to I could have given them one of the best orgasms of their life. But I didn’t want to. They forced themselves into my mouth and then jerked me off. Shit happens. I’m alive and I did what I had to do. And before you ask, I’d do it again. Is that clear enough for you or would you like me to explain it in a little more detail?”

There. Now he’s *really* got something to write up in his report.

What’s more, I don’t give a flying fuck. There’s only so much bullshit that I can take and today’s quota is me done for the rest of the year. I’m tired, I’m filthy, I can still feel the chill of the warehouse on my skin although I’m clothed, and I have nothing left to lose.

It’s all gone. Everything.

I’m not lying to Dr Jenkins so much as I am concealing the truth. What I just told him is fact. What I’m keeping to myself however is how useless… and used… I feel. I did what I had to do to keep Sam alive and, yes, I *would* do it again if push came to shove. It doesn’t mean that I don’t hate myself though. By now everyone at CI5 will know. Backup won’t have told anyone about the state they found me in but Taylor will have. I thought we were friends but he actually laughed as he uncuffed me. If I hadn’t been so desperate to pull my clothes on and to run over to Sam I would have hit him. Bastard.

“Mr Keel… Chris… I…” Jenkins stammers, obviously flustered. “I never knew…”

“And that’s because it’s none of your Goddamn business,” I mutter, shrugging. “What I do in my private time is my business and no one else’s. I was merely telling you so you could stop bleating at me that being forced to suck a couple of cocks didn’t make me gay, nothing more.”

“Point taken,” Jenkins replies, his composure quickly returning. “Now that we’re clear on that matter I’d still like to talk about how you’re now feeling. You were still rape… *violated*… against your will and that has to be effecting you.”

“The thought of my partner nearly dying is effecting me more,” I sigh, the desire to get up and simply walk out of the office becoming nearly overwhelming. “Get over it doctor, I am.”

“I have to insist we talk about this, Chris,” Jenkins swiftly responds, his pen once more flying over the paper on the desk. “Mr Malone was adamant that I be able to provide him with a clear report in respect to your mental state before declaring you fit for duty.”

Ah. So that’s what this crap’s really about. I should have known.

“In that case I hereby declare call this meeting closed,” I state coldly, standing up and making a beeline for the door.

“Chris! I insist that you sit back down and think about what you’re doing,” Jenkins beseeches. “You clearly don’t know what it is you are doing. If you walk out of here…”

“If I walk out of here you won’t declare me fit for duty,” I finish for him quietly, pausing by the door. “I know exactly what it is I’m doing, Doctor. Put this in your report to Malone - I don’t *want* to return to active duty. Not now and possibly not ever. I’m a liability. It’s my fault Sam almost died today and I don’t want the same fate to befall the next sucker who gets lumbered with me. There’s nothing you can say to change my mind, it’s made up.”

“I honestly don’t believe you know what it is you’re saying, Chris,” Jenkins murmurs, putting his pen down and giving his undivided attention. “Why don’t you take a night to sleep on it and come back tomorrow? Everything will seem better in the light of a new day.”

Opening the door, I shake my head and dredge up a wan smile to flash at Jenkins. “No, it won’t,” I state softly. “Goodbye Dr Jenkins, it’s been a complete waste of time talking to you.” With that I step out of the office and into the corridor. Jenkins calls after me but I ignore him and head in the direction of the ICU and Sam.

Having been here far too many times, both as a patient and a visitor, I know my way around the Queen Victoria Hospital and it only takes me a couple of minutes to reach the intensive care unit. Spotting Backup coming out of a room, I call her name and she turns to face me, her expression one of relief.

“Chris,” she greets me warmly and squeezes my shoulder. “Finished with the shrink already? That was quick.”

“Nothing to tell him” I mutter dismissively. She’ll find out soon enough that I’ve all but handed in my resignation and, gutlessly, I don’t want to be the one to tell her. “How’s Sam? When I got dragged away he was still in surgery.”

“It was touch and go for a while,” Backup replies. “If he’d suffered any more trauma or we’d taken longer to get there it would have had a very different ending. You’ll be relieved to hear though that that’s a moot point as given time and rehabilitation he should be able to return to full active duty. While blood loss was an issue the bullets miraculously didn’t pierce any major organs. He’ll be in hospital for a while and in pain, but he’ll live.”

“Thank God,” I sigh, my relief lifting some of the weight off my shoulders. “I… I don’t know what I would have done if…”

“Shhh…” Backup interrupts gently. “You don’t have to say it. You’ve been through enough for one day, Chris. Why don’t you come and see Sam for yourself before heading off home? He’s in the room just over there and isn’t scheduled to wake for hours. I’m going to stay here but I really think you could do with a rest.”

I nod, not responding as I follow the direction of Backup’s finger and hesitantly walk over to the door of Sam’s room. Machines monitor my partner’s vital signs, and he’s almost as white as the pillow case, but he’s alive. I want to touch him, but don’t dare. Even unconscious I’m sure he wouldn’t want me touching him. Not now anyway. I can’t even kiss his cheek because my mouth is so tainted.

Sam…

Why did you make me love you? I never wanted to. I even fought against your presence in my life. Why wouldn’t you take no for an answer, huh? I told you I wasn’t worth the effort you were putting into catching me. Yet you persisted, loved me irregardless of my faults and somehow made me love you in return.

And now look where it’s got us. You’re in a hospital bed after having nearly died and I’m…

And I’m freefalling.

Again.

~*~

“Keep the change,” I murmur, handing the cab driver a twenty, thankful that I can finally see my own front door. I don’t know where the Nissan that Sam drove to the warehouse is and can only assume someone’s driven it back to HQ. Not that I particularly care. Given how numb I feel I was actually relieved to have to catch a cab home. I can’t even remember the drive from the hospital and shudder to think what I would have been like behind the wheel.

“Are you sure mate?” the driver queries hopefully, barely disguising his glee at the prospect of a ten pound tip.

“I’m sure,” I mutter, forcing myself to smile at the man as I open the door and start to get out. It’s only money, something -- unlike everything else -- I have in abundance. “Thanks for the ride,” I add blandly, shutting the door and waving cursorily at the driver. He watches me as I slowly make my way to the front door before putting the cab in reverse and backing out of the driveway. Pausing at the door, I watch him drive up the street until his backlights disappear from sight and wonder what he thought of his pale and silent passenger. I’ll say one thing for the cab driver, he’s the first person I’ve met all day who didn’t feel compelled to talk at me. I ignored his comment about it being a beautiful spring day and he promptly shut up. For that alone he was worth the tip.

Ferreting my keys out of my pocket, I unlock the door and go inside. Being home at an unusual time, my super intelligent, whiz-bang heating system hasn’t turned itself on and my apartment feels like a morgue. I start to shiver even before I’ve shut and locked the door. Outside the sun is shining brightly and it is actually, as the cab driver said, a beautiful day. A day to be enjoyed with friends and family, perfect picnic weather.

I wish I’d never woken up this morning. Surely it would have been the best for everyone. Sam wouldn’t have been shot. I wouldn’t have been…

I wouldn’t have been used like some sort of common whore.

That’ll do.

It’s better than the other words I can’t get out of my head.

Used. Abused. Humiliated. Violated.

Not wanting to think about the fact that my life has disintegrated around my ears, I move away from the door and slowly make my way up the stairs. Although I’m essentially uninjured I move like a very old man. I have no life in me. My bones ache almost as much as the hole in my chest where my heart used to be does. As much as I long for a shower I don’t have it in me to hurry. It’s only mid afternoon yet I feel as though I haven’t slept for days. If I sit down I doubt I’ll get up again.

Reaching the top of the stairs, autopilot kicks in and sends me in the direction of the heating controls. Overriding the timer, I turn the heat up almost as far as it will go. Warm air immediately begins to blast out of the concealed vents but I can hardly feel it and still goosebumps prickle my skin. Perhaps I’m destined to forever feel the chill of the warehouse. In light of how low I feel it wouldn’t surprise me.

Listlessly leaning my back up against the wall, I survey the living area and feel at a complete loss as to what to do. I want a shower and I want to sleep but some invisible force field stops me from moving. I’m in my home yet I feel like a stranger. My belongings surround me but I derive no comfort from them. I’m home, I’m safe, Sam’s going to live… and I know that if I give into the tears I can feel welling in my eyes that I’ll cry until I pass out.

I’ve never felt so alone.

After the wedding I had a constant stream of well meaning baby-sitters with me for what felt like weeks. I was under constant supervision. Even my trips to the bathroom were monitored and timed, lest I attempted something stupid. At the time my lack of freedom annoyed me. I thought, grief obliterating my ability for rational thinking, that all I wanted was to be alone. Only now, now that I really am alone and have no one to turn to, do I realise that I was wrong. To have someone with me now would be to have hope.

I wish Sam…

What’s the fucking point. Wishful thinking is only going to succeed in making me feel worse about things. And God knows things are bad enough already.

Alone, dirty, cold, sore… I’m like my own personal rain cloud of despair and misery.

Blinking away the tears, I spot the Churchill autobiography that Sam had been reading while I’d been watching television last week, causing a fresh injection of pain to shoot into me. I can’t remember what I’d been staring aimlessly at but I can recall with searing clarity the feel of Sam’s arm around me as I snuggled against him on the sofa. Although it mustn’t have been easy he’d even mastered the art of turning the page single handedly so as not to disrupt me. It had been a good night. In hindsight I could even go so far as to call it precious.

The book opening the floodgates, everywhere I look I see signs of Sam’s presence in my apartment and my life. An issue of Time Magazine on the coffee table, the Dunoon mug with the alley-cats on it that he surprised me with one day out of the blue sitting precariously close to the edge of the dining table, his leather jacket draped casually over the back of a chair, a slowly dying vase of lilies near the answering machine that I bought for no other reason than I knew they were Sam’s favourite flowers. Although I never wanted him to, he’s ingratiated himself into every aspect of my life. I don’t even want to think about how much of Sam I’ll find in the bedroom and bathroom. We made love in my bed last night. I’ll be able to smell him in the sheets.

Last night… A lifetime ago.

I felt loved. Clean. Safe. And very, very happy.

I should have said it. I should have told him that I loved him, that despite my best intentions to the contrary I loved him with all my heart and soul. He deserved to know. Especially now.

Now that I’ll never say it.

Wanting more than ever to slump down to the floor in a crumpled heap and cry, I force myself to get a grip and, logic not exactly being my strong point at the moment, rapidly come to the conclusion that I have to pack all signs of Sam away. The shower can wait. First I’ll clean my apartment of anything that can taunt me and then I’ll clean myself. If I can’t see anything to remind me of my partner I’ll be able to put him out of my mind quicker.

Of course I will.

My new best -- and most likely *only* -- friend Denial says so.

Cold, bordering on clinical determination dictates that I start to move and I sluggishly push myself away from the wall, an eerie sense of calm descending on me. Packing Sam’s things away needs to be done and, really, the sooner the better. It’s for the best. There’s no other way of looking at it. I won’t have to deal with seeing what’s no longer mine and it’ll be done before Sam asks. My mind made up, I throw myself my into the task at hand like a man possessed. Blanking my mind of all thoughts, I don’t think about what I’m doing and just do it. If I allowed myself to think about the items -- and their associated memories -- as I carefully pack them in boxes I know I’d break down. Worthless though it might be, what little remains of my pride clings tenaciously to the fact that I’m still going, that while Colton’s turned my world upside down he hasn’t finished me. I don’t want to waste tears on the prick. Knowing that I want to cry is going to be all that he’s going to get out of me.

He’s changed the course of my life and taken from me everything I took for granted, but he’s not going to beat me. If he thinks his little party trick in the warehouse is going to result in me becoming the pet project of CI5s army of in-house shrinks then he’s going to be sadly mistaken. Loss has caused me to change my life before and God knows I can do it again. Retreating is one of the rare things I’m actually good at. Happy with my life, I hadn’t wanted to ever do it again, but at the same time know that I can…

That I will.

That I have to.

It takes over an hour to hunt up all of Sam’s belongings littered around my apartment. Leaving no cupboard or drawer unopened, I even find a cookbook in the kitchen and a tie in the study of all places. I even change the sheets, throwing them straight into the bin as opposed to washing them, and make the bed. By the time I’ve finished there are two boxes and three full plastic bags neatly stacked by the front door. Walking wearily back up the stairs I note dully that my apartment now looks as dull and as lifeless as I feel.

The fine-bone china mug with the illustrations of quaintly decrepit alley-cats on the dining table is the only thing left to demonstrate Sam’s presence in my life and I hesitate over what to do with it. Through the void in my head I can still remember the shy, embarrassed expression on Sam’s face as he surprised me with it and the way he’d all but held his breath as I unwrapped it. “Well, you said you were a pussy cat,” he’d murmured nervously as I’d laughed, touched by his gesture and loving him for having thought of me. I don’t want to see it at the moment but nor do I want to give it back. It means too much to me, even now, to lose.

Deciding for the time being at least I’ll wash it before hiding it behind the rest of my mugs in the kitchen, I pick it up, realising too late that I’m trembling. The mug crashes to the floor, shattering on impact. It’s the equivalent of the straw that broke the camel’s back. I stare at the pieces, for a second barely able to comprehend what happened.

Idiot. Complete and utter worthless fucking idiot.

I then, as it hits me that I can’t do anything right, spin on my heels and bolt for the bedroom, my desire to shower and sleep now overwhelming. Reaching the bedroom, I throw the contents of drawers around searching for a pair of pyjama pants -- that I know have to be somewhere -- as I can feel myself becoming more and more dithery. Finally locating the errant pants, and thus saving a whole two drawers from being emptied onto the floor, I grab a t-shirt from the pile by my feet and lurch into the en suite .

Clearly not up to multi-tasking at the moment, all I can think about is getting clean. Dumping my sleepwear on the vanity unit, I turn the shower on and strip off my clothes. I’m now shaking so badly that it takes me longer to undo my shirt than it did in the warehouse. Once I’m naked I’m unsuccessful in avoiding my reflection in the mirror and end up staring at myself numbly. I look, not to put a too fine a point on it or anything, fucked. Completely fucked. What flesh isn’t pasty white is dirty grey with the dust from the warehouse floor and my eyes are grey too.

Colton called me beautiful. Proof that he’s not only stupid but blind as well.

Sam used to call me beautiful. There were times when I almost believed him. He made me feel, in a true triumph of hope over experience, beautiful as he held me and whispered it in my ear.

They’re both wrong though. I’m not beautiful. I’m trouble masquerading behind flesh and bone. Always have been.

Biting back a whimper, I turn my back on my ghostly reflection and get into the shower. The water is scalding but I hardly feel it. Using the nailbrush and a whole bar of soap, I scrub myself clean. Not even my cock, which I can’t bring myself to look at, escapes the harsh treatment. My chest and stomach are a livid, angry red colour by the time I’ve finished with them. I feel no pain though. As is becoming par for the course, I feel nothing. Not the heat of the water or the sting of the self-imposed scratches, nothing.

Sensing the hot water running out, I turn the taps off and get out of the shower. Grabbing a towel, I roughly dry myself and pull on my pyjamas, all the time keeping my back to the mirror. Dressed, I turn my attention to my mouth and brush my teeth five times. My gums start to bleed during the third time but I brush them twice more anyway, not caring that I’m spitting out blood.

Allegedly clean, I take a mouthful of water directly from of the tap and walk back into the bedroom. Going over to the drawer in my bedside table, I retrieve the out-of-date bottle of sleeping pills from behind the now redundant condoms and lube and swiftly swallow two. With brilliant sunlight streaming through the window I then crawl miserably into bed, desperately seeking oblivion. Not having eaten anything since breakfast, the sleeping pills are fast acting and I’ve barely pulled the duvet over my head before I’m asleep.

It’s easily the highlight of my day.

~*~

Wearily cracking my eyes open, I take note of the almost blinding sunlight enveloping my room in a warm and welcoming glow and promptly shut them again. Vampire-like, I then, with all the grace and speed of a beached whale, roll over and present my back to the window. I don’t want to know it’s morning let alone that it’s going to be yet another allegedly lovely day. To hell with lovely days. Given the abyss in my head it’ll take more than sunlight and daffodils blowing gently in the warm spring breeze to make me view the day as anything other than twenty-four long hours that have to be endured and suffered through.

To my disappointment I feel more or less exactly the same as I did when I went to bed. I’ve slept for something ridiculous like thirteen hours yet I still feel exhausted. My head hurts and there’s a gnawing, empty feeling in my stomach that has nothing to do with being hungry. I know it’s not hunger because I only have to think of eating and my stomach churns. Unlike my dreams, I remember, with picture perfect clarity, everything that took place yesterday. If I dreamt at all last night the sleeping pills must have protected me from them. I think I did dream though, given the state of the bedding and the fact that there’s more of the duvet on the floor than there is on the bed, and am pathetically grateful for not being able to remember whatever horrors my subconscious felt compelled to inflict on me. My life holding no real joys at the moment, I’ll take what I can get, however small and insignificant.

I feel -- and why sugar coat it? -- wretched. Colton may as well have fucked me yesterday as I honestly doubt it would have made me feel any worse about things. I’ll argue until I’m blue in the face that what happened wasn’t rape, that I was in complete control throughout, but…

But I still feel used. Tainted even.

Happy -- incredibly so -- with Sam, I’d thought my days of sex as a means to an end were well and truly over with. Only now, now that it’s gone, do I realise that I took what we had for granted. Having lived vicariously through sex for too much of my adult life, Sam, as dumb ass as it sounds, made me feel special. From the very beginning with him it was more than just sex. He was the first person to love me before he fucked me. I know this as surely as I do that Colton is a worthless piece of shit who’ll one day get his. Sam put up with me as I pulled myself together, he waited for me to stop fucking around (both literally and with my life in general) and he loved me. The damn pig-headed fool simply wouldn’t see sense and take no for an answer. In the end he wore down my defences and never seemed anything but content with the human wreck he’d won through hard work and determination.

Sam was the fourth person I’ve ever loved. He was also the one I loved the most. Where others would have taken a long hard look at my history and seen the light, he fought for me and wouldn’t back down. His blind faith alone was enough to make me warm to him. The others were all precious, but it’s the memory of Sam I’ll carry with me to the grave. The memory not only of his love but also of how I failed him.

Cameron I got sent to live with his loopy great-aunt in New Orleans, Stuart I pushed to the edge of suicide, Teresa I effectively got killed and Sam I got shot twice in the chest. If I’m not a menace to those who love me then I don’t what is. Sam will live, but to me he’s as dead as Teresa. He has to be. It’s my fault he nearly died and, to add insult to injury, he witnessed my whoring. It’s not like I can blame him for hating me. I’m a failure and a cheap slut thrown in for good measure.

Ironically I’ve now fulfilled the prophecy of Cameron’s father. He told me that I’d end up as a good for nothing whore and, well I never, it looks like he’s right. I corrupted his, in his mind anyway, pure and innocent son and now I’m paying the price. If only he could see me now, he’d most likely laugh so hard that he’d be in danger of choking on his dentures. Petty, arrogant, small minded son of a bitch that he is. Assuming of course he’s still around and terrorising those unfortunate enough to be related to him. I bet he is still alive too. Cantankerous bastard’s like him have the uncanny knack of outliving just about everyone. Malone will live forever too. It’s just one of those things.

I was sixteen and still in high school when I met Cameron. Having just moved to Chicago from New York he was fresh blood in a sea of familiar, boring faces. My life one stifled by both money and the compulsion to conform, I still had people in my classes that I’d gone to kindergarten with. Suffocating from the monotony of it all, I was drawn to Cameron like a moth to a flame. Unlike my friends who I wouldn’t have missed greatly if they’d been abducted en masse by aliens, he had an aura about him that I couldn’t ignore. Well developed for his age, he was taller than me with naturally sun bleached blond hair and a smile that caused my heart to flutter nervously in my chest everytime it was flashed in my direction. All of the girls loved him. Cathy Taylor, head bimbette of the cheerleading squad, all but stalked him she was so determined to have him. Interestingly enough, to Cathy’s eternal disgust, he ignored her and chose instead to hang around with me. I was popular, sure, but I knew that wasn’t why Cameron chose to spurn Cathy and her limber legs for my company. We only had to look into each other’s eyes to feel the sparks and knew instinctively that we wanted each other. My long held to delusion that I was as straight as they come didn’t survive Cameron’s first month in town.

Cameron wasn’t bisexual, he was gay, one hundred percent homosexual. He didn’t flaunt it but nor did he actively deny it. I’d spent the last five years trying desperately to convince myself that my number one aim in life was the secrets contained in the naked female form but was slowly coming to the conclusion that I was fighting a losing battle. The whole saga of trading my virginity in the year before for a couple of minutes of unsatisfying fumblings in Emily’s bedroom didn’t exactly compel me to go in search of a repeat performance. Whether this was solely because she kept her bra on the whole time or because it was just a tad disconcerting being in a room covered by posters of Wham and Culture Club is probably one of those things I’ll never know. Either way the whole act pretty much left me cold. When I masturbated my fantasies revolved around naked men far more than they did around naked females and I knew there was part of me that longed for my fantasies to be brought to reality.

I put up little resistance to my desires. Being a spoilt only child I wasn’t used to being denied and I wanted Cameron. I wanted to touch his naked flesh and I wanted his lips on mine. Confidence not being something I lacked, thanks to having both money and a childhood spent safe in the knowledge that the world *did* actually revolve around me, I was prepared to change the carefully plotted course of my life for him. Wanting to be with another man, now that I was faced with the prospect of it actually happening, didn’t bother me. I was young and I was infatuated. To put it another, blunter way, I was thinking pretty much solely with my cock.

Our relationship, such as it was, revolved around the physical side of things. While we could talk easily to each other our conversations weren’t exactly what you’d call deep and meaningful and we never talked about the ‘Future’. I loved Cameron for the liberation and the release he gave me but I was never naïve enough to attempt to base my future around him. What we had together was fun and exciting but that’s all it really was. Being more assured of his sexuality than I was, Cameron took me under his wing and taught me in explicit detail how to pleasure another man. Unlike most of my studies I threw myself whole-heartedly into his lessons and was a quick learner. The first time Cameron kissed me effortlessly eclipsed my entire disastrous relationship with Emily. Whenever we could get away we’d disappear into my room, only just remembering to lock the door in our haste to get into bed. If the housekeeper thought anything about the state of my sheets then to the best of my knowledge she thankfully kept them to herself.

For just over three months we were close to inseparable. One weekend, deciding that I was bored with doing it in my bedroom I insisted that we go back to Cameron’s house. We usually avoided his place because his father didn’t like me but thought we’d be okay because he was meant to be at golf all day. I was never anything but polite to Mr Shaw but we both knew he could barely tolerate me. Stupidly enough I think, in the beginning anyway, that his dislike was governed by the misguided snobbery of old money versus new money. The Shaw’s were new money and something in his tiny brain told him that I was slumming -- and no doubt feeling virtuous by doing so, a bit like participating in a community service program to help those less fortunate -- it by being friends with his son. Whatever his excuse was, I was never in Mr Shaw’s good books. I invited him to come to a BBQ at my parent’s once and he replied that he’d rather crawl over broken glass than be sneered at by a pack of pretentious old snobs. It was at that point that I ceased bothering. Let’s face it, it wasn’t him I wanted to fool around naked with anyway.

Unbeknownst to us at the time, given that we were otherwise occupied, a storm broke while we were in Cameron’s bedroom and golf was cancelled. Instead of doing the civilised thing and taking himself to the nineteenth hole for a drink with the others Mr Shaw decided to go home. He then, for no other reason than he *could* I think, decided to poke his head into Cameron’s room. Lying on my stomach at the time, I missed the expression on his face as he opened the door and saw his only son lying naked on his bed with another boy. It’s something I actually regret as I doubt priceless would have come close to describing the horror on his too tanned face. I’m surprised he didn’t just have a coronary on the spot.

Not exactly surprisingly, Mr Shaw went ballistic, absolutely fucking ballistic. Pulling Cameron off the bed, he slapped him around all the time ranting and raving that he was a disgrace to both the family and himself. I’d never seen anyone so angry before and, after hurriedly pulling the sheet over myself, cowered on the bed not knowing what to do. At some point I realised that Mr Shaw blamed me personally for his son’s ‘disgusting habits’ and simply let him rant at me, his words flying over my head. I knew the truth just as I knew there was no point sharing it with the bigoted old asshole. Eventually, his face bright red and with a vein throbbing ominously in his forehead, Mr Shaw informed me that I was destined to end up as a good for nothing whore and dragged Cameron out of the room. Scared that he was going to come back for me, I swiftly pulled my clothes back on and bolted out of the house.

It was the last time I ever saw Cameron. Wanting to ‘cure’ his son, Mr Shaw packed him up and sent him to stay with his great-aunt in New Orleans. Mr Shaw himself had been sent to stay with said aunt some thirty years earlier and he thought she’d have the same impact on Cameron as she had on him. Unfortunately for Mr Shaw she’d changed somewhat from the strict ex-head mistress that he knew and was too old to control an outraged and hormonal teenage boy. Cameron turned to drugs and nearly died from an OD on his eighteenth birthday before pulling himself together and going off to art school.

Not that I ever heard any of this from Cameron. Oh-no. Beyond the point of being persona non grata at the Shaw’s, Mr Shaw forced himself to phone my father in order to tell him that it was in my best interests to have no further contact with Cameron and that should any letters come from New Orleans they should be kept from me from all costs. Wanting to keep the truth quiet, he said it was because his son was unfortunately involved with drugs and that he wanted to protect me from the same fate. My father fell hook, line and sinker for the bullshit and saw to it personally that the three letters Cameron wrote me were destroyed. I found all this out from Sally, Cameron’s younger sister after I’d finished high school and was preparing to join the navy. Until then I’d had no idea what had happened to Cameron and in my most fanciful moments had all but convinced myself that his father had killed him.

If I hadn’t insisted we go to his place Cameron’s entire life would have been different. I know I’m not to blame for his father’s over-reaction but nonetheless still feel guilty over what happened. As for me, I missed him like crazy for the first couple of weeks after he’d disappeared but then pushed him to the back of my mind and got on with my life. There was nothing else for me to do. I couldn’t tell my parents the true reason behind my depression and I lacked the courage to approach Mr Shaw in order to ask him about Cameron. And thus, in a truly farcical way, ended my first love.

Stuart Walker was my second love. I was twenty when we met in a bar and shouted introductions over the thumping sound of some Madonna song. He bought me a drink and I let him take me back to his apartment. All I wanted from the evening was a fuck. Having too much fun being single and fancy free, I wasn’t looking for a relationship and didn’t expect to ever see him again. When he brought me breakfast in bed the following morning I was so touched that I decided to give him a second chance. Use to rolling out of the bed and grunting a farewell to the person, who’s name I’d already forgotten (if I’d even ever known it in the first place) before slipping out the door and working out where the hell I was, being treated to breakfast was a pleasant surprise and made me warm to him.

My one night stand with Stuart turned into fifteen months of convenient love. Stuart, with his puppy-dog eyes and careful touch, loved me far more than I loved him. Don’t get me wrong, in my own way I loved him, but just never passionately. He was kind, loving, and giving… and just a tad on the suffocating side. If marriage between two men was legal Stuart would have got down on bended knee and done his best to shove an engagement ring onto my finger. He wanted us to buy a house and grow old together. He also wanted me to give up the navy and do something ‘sensible’. I think his dream was for me to study law like he was so one day we could open our own law firm together.

It rapidly reached the point where I literally couldn’t stand it anymore. As comfortable and as happy as I was with him, I couldn’t -- *wouldn’t* -- change the way he wanted me to. I tried everything I could think of to let him down gently but nothing worked. In the end, snapping, I had to shout a few home truths at him. I can still remember the expression of shock on his face. And the way he cried. The last thing I’d wanted was to hurt him, but I couldn’t think of any other way to get it through to him that I wasn’t the man for him. Not that it would have sounded like it to Stuart, I honestly wanted the best for him and knew that he could do better than me. He needed someone to settle down with and that person wasn’t me. Breaking up hurt, but it had to be done - for both of us.

The day after I left Stuart he swallowed a packet or two of Tylenol. If not for one of his college friends wondering why he’d missed class that day he would have died. Thankfully his front door was unlocked and they walked in to find him passed out on the floor of the living room. I went to see him in the hospital and he told me that I could shove my flowers up my ass and that if he ever saw me again it would be too soon. Not wanting to risk further pushing his buttons I left the hospital and didn’t see him again for another five months. Happily he was with a new boyfriend, who he’s incidentally still with, and we were able to speak civilly to each other to the point of now being on each other’s Christmas card lists.

Deciding that my success rate with relationships was on the deplorable side of bad, I spent the next three years having one night stands and convincing myself that I was getting everything out of life that I wanted. Then, at the age of twenty four, I met Teresa and the world as I knew it tilted on its axis. She was beautiful and fun and I wanted to be with her. Even the sex was great. For the first time ever I felt connected with a woman. I was still drawn to men but, not wanting to fuck up what I had, I ignored my desires. Remarkably it wasn’t difficult. Her family being old navy stock like mine, in fact our fathers had even been at sea together before we’d been born, she knew what the life was like and how much it meant to me and never once suggested that I give it up. I loved her with my whole heart. Being with her made me feel alive and, after sixteen months of going out, asking her to marry me was like the most natural thing in the universe. When she said yes I thought I was seriously in danger of exploding with happiness.

The wedding was meant to be the most perfect, the most *precious* day of my life. Getting married on the lawns of the navy base had suited and pleased everyone. There hadn’t even been a debate over the location. If there had been… If only one person had had a different suggestion…

If only…

The day that was meant to be the happiest of my life holds the dubious honour of holding the record for most civilian casualties ever taken on a naval base during peace time. All because some idiot that had suddenly decided that he’d had enough of life had a key to the armoury. I didn’t even know Nichols. I don’t even think he knew there was a wedding taking place when he started his rampage, we were just the world’s worst case of wrong place, wrong time. Thousands and thousands of words have been wasted on dissecting the day but they’ll never make sense of it. Not that it matters. No explanation can give me back what was taken from me.

Teresa died in my arms, my parents on the grass behind me. Of all the people standing in front of the table I was the only one who wasn’t shot. By the time it was finished, and Nichols had lodged the final bullet in his skull, I was covered in blood but physically uninjured. My mind was AWOL but there wasn’t so much as a scratch on my body.

Two years passed before I could feel again, another two on top of that before I let myself love again.

Sam, from the very beginning, was different from all my other loves. For starters I didn’t want a damn thing to do with him and secondly I actually fought his affection at every step. God alone knows why, but he loved me before I could even accept that I so much as liked him and *didn’t* actually want him to get the fuck out of my sorry excuse for a life. Go figure.

To this very day I don’t know what it is that drew Sam to me. I know one thing for certain though, and that’s that it sure as fuck wasn’t my bright and bubbly personality. Surly and apathetic, I was one small step away from being a complete asshole when I joined CI5. Hell, I’m the first to admit my attitude was less than charming. While I knew enough to know I wanted the change I didn’t know what it was I was doing or what I really hoped to achieve from it. Sick and tired of my stagnant existence in America, something in my mind told me that CI5s offer was about as good as it was going to get for me and that I’d be wise to accept it. That however was as far as my thought process went.

For months the nicest thing I had to say about CI5 was at least they all predominantly kept to themselves. My history not common knowledge, I wasn’t confronted by token gestures of sympathy everywhere I turned and was able to just get on with it. The months of training sucked, and I actually found myself homesick for the first half of it, but it kept me busy if nothing else and I was able to delude myself that my rash decision had been the right one to make. Not caring what people thought of me, I kept to myself and focussed on my training. I passed with flying colours but unlike the others didn’t celebrate. Given that I did nothing to dispel their view that I thought I was better than them I don’t think they missed me at the pub.

I wanted a change from the navy. I wanted to work and I wanted to kid myself that I was able to make a difference. I wanted action. What I didn’t want was people constantly patting me on the shoulder and asking whether I was okay. Nor was I in a great hurry for friends either. For what little it was worth, all I wanted was to get on with my life, with forgetting. Distance, from both the States and others, I hoped would be my saviour.

I *didn’t* want a partner.

Malone, who it scares me to think knows me better than either of us let on, insisted. If I’d read my contract instead of just blithely signing it I would have seen that it was non-negotiable in my case. I got a permanent partner assigned to me or I got to spend the rest of my career staring at computer monitors in the office. Bill Gates not exactly having to worry in respect to my computer expertise, I had no other choice but to tetchily accept the fact I was being stuck with a shadow. I did not accept this unwanted surprise with good grace and sulked for two days before reluctantly apologising to Malone and agreeing to meeting my partner.

If I had a first impression of Sam I don’t remember it. Truth be told I don’t even remember much about our first six months together at all. I was stuck with him and that’s all there was to it. It didn’t mean I had to feign interest in his life or learn anything about him. We worked together, I grunted in response to his small talk, he ignored my moods and didn’t, to my distinct displeasure, demand a change of partner. Sam thanked me for saving his life. I didn’t thank him for saving mine. We never actually fought, although I snapped and griped a lot, and I think now that Sam was cutting me a hell of a lot of slack. He could have punched me in the face when I was in one of my petulant, whining Yank moods and I would have deserved it. If he ever come close to hitting me though I never saw it.

Gradually it begun to take more effort to actively ignore Sam than it did to force myself to be polite to him. He was there, he trusted me with his life, he was kind to me when he didn’t have to be, and his eyes lit up when he saw me. To my astonishment it slowly dawned on me that he wanted more from me than just a partner. I knew he liked men because it was one of the first things that he told me that I actually remembered. “Before you find out through some other source, I like men,” he’d stated in a way that dared me to make an issue of it. I even remember my reply as it was nothing short of truly inspired -- “Hooray for you. Not that it’s any of your fucking business, so do I. Wow. We have something in common. How peachy is that...” -- and that I then abruptly walked out of the room.

Instead of feeling flattered by Sam’s obvious interest I just felt annoyed. Quite fucked off really. Not wanting the attention, I spent the next six or so months going out of my way to deflect it. While talking to Sam would have been the civilised thing to do I chose instead to fuck around, ensuring that he couldn’t keep up with amount of men and women I went through. Sex was something I could do without having to think. As selfish as it sounds I could do it without feeling a thing. It killed time, little more. I waited impatiently for him to express his disgust at my behaviour but he never did. It was almost as though he thought I’d eventually wear myself out and that he’d be the one to pick up the pieces.

Strangely enough, my wanton behaviour aside, my friendship with Sam during this time actually strengthened. If I couldn’t face the prospect of trawling a club for an anonymous fuck I knew I could join Sam in the pub for a drink and that he’d talk to me without ever sounding as though he was judging me. Against my own self-imposed rules I found myself slowly growing thankful for having Sam in my life. I still didn’t *want* him, not in the way he seemed to want me (hell, I didn’t want *anyone*), but was nonetheless pleased to call him my friend.

Eventually I tired of the sleeping around and in a true case of not thinking with what passes for my best came to the conclusion that I’d reward Sam for his loyalty by letting him sleep with me. Clinically magnanimous had nothing on my way of thinking. To me it made perfect sense. Give Sam what he wanted, get the sex out of the way (because surely it was nothing but a case of desiring the seemingly unobtainable), and then we could go back to being partners and building our budding friendship. He’d stop wanting me, I’d be able to stop deflecting him and all would be well.

Over two years on I still cringe when I think about the night I decided to put my plan into action.

Sam, blissful in his ignorance as to what I was planning for him, agreed to come to my motel room in order to discuss the case we were working on and how we were going to tackle the following day. While we usually had these conversations in a secluded part of a bar it wasn’t too out of the ordinary and I think it’s safe to say that Sam wasn’t expecting anything to happen. When he entered my room, which I’d left unlocked in anticipation -- “Just in case I’m still in the shower you can let yourself in…” -- I was waiting for him in the doorway to the bathroom, naked save for a towel I was holding loosely in front of myself.

Poor Sam. Instead of drooling with delight at his ‘surprise’ he looked oddly mortified and stared at me blankly, the ability to speak having clearly deserted him.

Pushing my misgivings to the back of my mind, I, in a completely wanton gesture, casually dropped the towel and purred an offer that I didn’t think he could refuse.

He did though. Refuse that is, with much stammering and sighing and not looking at me.

Pissed, not to mention embarrassed, by his reaction, I launched into a diatribe and angrily informed him -- with the assistance of many expletives -- that I knew he wanted me and that I was offering him his only chance of bringing his dreams to reality. “If you don’t fucking want me then why are you always staring at me, huh? Come on Sam! Get your clothes off. I’m here, you’re here… What are you fucking waiting for?”

I will never, not even if I live to one hundred and the rest of my memory is shot to shit, forget his response. Never. It simultaneously made me feel both like a fool *and* incredibly fortunate.

“Maybe I do want you, Chris, but not like this,” he murmured softly, finally looking me in the eye. “Perhaps I’m stupid enough to care about you when you clearly don’t, and perhaps I might want to love you and offer you everything I have, but again, not like this. Think about it, Chris, if not for me then for yourself, you’re worth more than you think and you’re just throwing your life away. I want the person I know you’re fighting hard to suppress, not just your body.”

With that he left the room, leaving me feeling shell-shocked and more than a little ashamed. Somehow, without even having been aware of it, Sam had gotten to know me better than I ever would have imagined. My plan having backfired spectacularly I was left with no choice but to rethink my entire relationship with my partner. Knowing that he didn’t just want to fuck me changed everything. Sex, given how little it meant to me, I’d convinced myself I could deal with, but actually wanting *me*? I mean, huh? Wanting me was like sending out an invitation for trouble and it threw me knowing that Sam was willing to take the risk.

We never spoke of that night. Although I felt as though I ought to have apologised I kept quiet, not wanting to raise the subject, and life -- with a couple of minor changes -- continued. I stopped sleeping around. It wasn’t doing anything exactly wonderful for me and nor was it having the impact on Sam that I’d been hoping for. If he honestly wanted me then he seemed to want me whether I slept around or not. Not that I would have expected it, our friendship actually improved after that night. Perhaps I put more effort into not being a closed off asshole, I don’t know. What I do know though is that I was happier to be alive than I had in a very long time. I wasn’t ecstatic, and I was still moody, but I was definitely better than I had been. I started to smile again, naturally and without having to force myself. To me it was nothing short of a miracle.

Focussing all my attention on, once and for all, pulling myself together I forgot about Sam’s interest in me. He was my friend, I saw him almost every day and I was thankful for him. I was too self-absorbed though to see that his eyes still lit up when saw me and that he still wanted more from me than I was prepared to give him. As far as I was concerned, just like when I left Stuart so he could get someone better suited to him than me, Sam really, *really* didn’t want me. Nasty things had a habit of befalling people I loved and I didn’t want Sam to be sucked into my apparent curse as well. We could be friends, and he could mean more to me than any other living person, but that’s where it had to end. I was adamant that nothing more would ever come of it.

So adamant in fact that when he surprised me by asking me out on a date I said yes without so much as second’s hesitation. The idea of a date -- as opposed to simply buying someone a drink or dinner in advance payment for the guaranteed sex afterwards -- obviously tickling my fancy, my determination to keep Sam at arms length flew out the window and I accepted gleefully. Although I had second thoughts the moment my acceptance was out of my mouth I couldn’t bring myself to retract it or wriggle out of it. Sam had looked so pleased, not to mention relieved with my response that I didn’t have it in me to disappoint him. I told myself that surely one date wouldn’t hurt and that I’d tell Sam why he’d really be better off directing his affections elsewhere.

It took six weeks and six dates to tell Sam everything. I tried to get it all out during the first date but he kept eloquently dismissing my concerns and telling me that surely I was due a break. My snorted response, that the most likely break would be one of his bones if he didn’t quit while he was ahead, did nothing to deflect him. In the end, so as not to ruin the entire meal, we simply agreed -- for the time being at least -- to differ. This, in varying forms and locations, continued for six weeks. It then reached breaking point in a grotty little motel room somewhere in the ass end of Texas.

I thought I was more determined than Sam but I was wrong. I thought I’d be able to convince him that he didn’t want me but I couldn’t. Everything I had to say he had an answer for, every excuse I had he dismissed. Put on the spot and feeling cornered, I become agitated and started to shout and pace. I was so loud that the family with the two squawking kids in the room next door banged on the wall. Not impressed with their interruption to my last ditch effort to keep Sam away from me, I was in the process of yelling at them that *I’d* shut the fuck up so long as they ensured the same for their snotty nosed brats when Sam kissed me. I was so shocked that it rendered me immediately speechless.

“You were saying?” he then inquired politely, his expression equal parts hopeful and amused.

Proving once more that I had a way with words, I promptly whispered, “Fuck you,” before falling silent again.

“Only if you ask nicely,” Sam replied with a smirk as his lips once again settled on mine.

Knowing when I was beaten, I kissed him back. It was nicer than the shouting. Far nicer.

Perhaps inevitably we ended up in bed. It was even nicer than the kissing. Afterwards -- in one of the top ten embarrassing moments of my life -- I cried. No. Correction. I didn’t just cry, oh-no, no tears of joy escaped my eyes, I sobbed. For the first time since the wedding, I lost control and gave into my emotions. I hadn’t cried at the funerals, or the farewell party the SEALS threw for me, or even during the yearly anniversary of the wedding that wasn’t, but I cried for Sam. For his kindness and determination, for his faith in me and for the fact that he’d just made the worst mistake of his life. I also cried for me, for the fact I hadn’t been strong enough to push him way.

Sam never blinked an eyelid at my pathetic display. If I was hoping my performance was going to send him fleeing it didn’t work. Not mind you that that was what I was hoping. Fuck no. That would have implied I was capable of conscious thought which, well, I wasn’t. He held me and rubbed my back while I gasped and wheezed and no doubt rambled stuff that made no sense whatsoever. I should have woke with a splitting headache but I didn’t. I woke held tight in Sam’s arms and for five blissful minutes felt at peace. Then what we’d done hit me and I couldn’t get out of bed and into the bathroom fast enough.

This time we couldn’t *not* talk about what had happened. So we talked -- *argued* -- until Sam kissed me again and we tumbled into bed. I didn’t cry the second time, which is something for which I’m eternally grateful. Having no case left to present and being unable to deny how much I enjoyed being with Sam, I wearily admitted defeat. If he wanted me as his lover and as someone he could talk to then, fuck it, he could have me. Didn’t mean I had to love him in return though.

No. Of course not. I didn’t *have* to love him.

But I did. I never told him, but I did… With all my tattered heart. He gave me back the desire to live as opposed to merely existing and I loved him.

Fifteen months passed in a comfortable blur of happiness and contentment. I even foolishly began to believe that everything, as Sam said it would be, *was* going to be okay.

“Come on Chris, you’ve already had your three strikes of bad luck, you’re due the good stuff now,” he’d say everytime I was down and expressing doubts.

And look at us now.

I was right and Sam was wrong.

Hoo-fucking-ray for me. If it didn’t involve dragging my worthless ass out of bed I’d celebrate the fact that I’ve just fucked up again.

~*~

Fact of life one - Countdown sucks just as much with the volume turned off as it does with sound. The letters I’m staring dully at mean so little to me that I doubt I could make a word out of them even if my life depended on it. I’d change the channel only that would mean unfolding myself from my huddled position on the sofa and, well, I simply can’t be bothered.

Fact of life two - I still feel like shit.

Fact of life three - my answering machine is full and now the phone just rings out. If I’d been thinking before I slumped down on the sofa I would have unplugged the silly bloody thing and saved myself the hassle of hearing it ring. You could be mistaken for thinking I’m popular given the amount of calls I’ve had today. Backup’s called five times while the lord and master himself, Malone, Dr Jenkins and Spencer have all called once. I’ve listened the messages. I have no intention of replying to any of them but I’ve heard them. Seeing as I’m in the room with the phone I haven’t really had any choice in the matter.

Malone wants to know what it is I think I’m playing at. Spencer wants to know why I haven’t dutifully called Malone back yet and Dr Jenkins *really* thinks that we should talk, that it would do me the *world* of good.

And Backup wants to mind her own damn business.

“Are you there Chris? Pick up if you are. Okay… I’ve heard what you said to Jenkins about not wanting to go back on active. What’s that all about, huh? Call me when you wake up, get back in, whatever.”

“Chris? For God’s sake Chris, pick up the phone! Fine. On the off chance you care Sam had a good night and the doctors are all saying that his signs are promising. I’m assuming you want to know this, yeah? Call me.”

“Chris? Is everything okay? You haven’t called me back and I’m beginning to get concerned. Sam’s awake and asking for you. If you don’t want to speak to me the least you could do is drag your sorry ass down to the hospital to see your partner.”

”This is bullshit Chris. Where the fuck are you? Sam wants to know where you are and I don’t have anything to tell him. I think he’s in a bad enough way already without me telling him that you’ve gone AWOL, don’t you?”

“Come on Chris… I know what happened yesterday was bad, but you’ve got to put it behind you. Sam wants to see you and I want to talk to you. There’s been… There’s been developments in the case. Call me. Please.”

I’d bet good money that last phone call, the one the machine didn’t pick up, was Backup calling again. She can’t help herself. I’d be lying if I said I appreciated her concern though. All I want is to be left the fuck alone. I don’t think, taking into consideration how *bad* yesterday was, that that’s too much to ask. If I had anything to say to anyone I’d pick up the phone and speak to them. But I don’t.

I mean, what could I say? That something like this was bound to happen, that I feel like a cheap slut and that all I want is to be left alone? Call me mundane but I don’t exactly think it would go down overly well. Backup would offer unwelcome advice, Malone would tell me to snap out of it, Spencer would put me straight through to Malone, and Jenkins would rub his hands together with glee. And I’m simply not in the mood for dealing with any of it. Everything is in such a mess that I can barely cope with it myself without taking the risk of breaking down on someone else. It mightn’t seem like much but I can at least kid myself that I have some respect left.

Jenkins and all his white coated colleagues can, in no uncertain terms, all go fuck themselves. I’ve been through enough psychiatrists in my life to know that they’re nothing but a waste of time and money. In fact I’ve been through so many that I’m sure if they compiled their notes they’d be able to write an incredibly long and boring book about me.

Not many people -- thankfully -- have the dubious honour of first being made to visit a shrink at the age of six. I can. Wrong place wrong time, for everyone involved, I saw an old woman get run over by a speeding Cadillac as I played with my toy cars on our driveway. Until then I’d never seen so much blood before. It seemed to be everywhere. On the windscreen of the Cadillac, on the road, on the old woman, *everywhere*. With her unfortunate death came, not surprisingly I suppose, the nightmares. With a seemingly endless array of variations on the theme, I’d dream about cars running people over and wake up screaming.

My parents, at a loss as to what to do to help me, carted me off to a child psychiatrist. Dr Jamieson his name was. He wore Coke bottle glasses, had a real problem with errant nasal hair and made me draw pictures for him that were supposed to expose all my deepest and darkest secrets. That’s all I can really remember about him other than the fact I didn’t like him and wanted nothing to do with him. I only had to see him twice. Then, being the bright spark that I was, I cottoned on to the fact that if I stacked on a tantrum when being taken out to the car my mother would feel sorry for me and take me out for ice-cream instead. The nightmares went away in due course and I hoped I’d never have to see another psychiatrist again in my life.

Ha. Four years later, and stuck in bed not going anywhere, I had my next oh-so-informative experience with a shrink. The rope hanging from the big tree in the yard not being as strong as I’d hoped it to be, my game of Luke Skywalker swinging onto Jabba’s sail barge from the skiff above the Sarlaac had ended with me plummeting out of the sky and landing flat on my back. Nothing short of Divine Intervention saved me from breaking my back and all the doctors said I was lucky not to have been paralysed. My spine nonetheless suffered a fair knock and I had to spend close to a month in bed.

As if being confined to my bed wasn’t bad enough my parents, in all their wisdom, jumped to the conclusion that it hadn’t actually been an accident and that perhaps I’d meant to kill myself. My grandfather, who’d lived just up the street from us and who I’d loved dearly, had passed away the month before and they thought that I was so distraught with grief that I wanted to join him. I tried telling them that I was playing at being Luke Skywalker but they merely took that to mean I was in denial and brought in Dr Nielsen to set me straight. Dr Nielsen was a scary woman with grey hair scraped back into a harsh bun who smelt of violets and mothballs and who I swear had had her sense of humour removed, along with her ability to smile, at a very early age. I told her what I’d told my parents and she saw fit to lecture me on the evils of playing make-believe. I was ten years old for Christ’s sake. What did she fucking expect? A thesis on how being made to play walking talking teddy bears in Return Of The Jedi was an insult to dwarves? Honestly, it was just a joke. As much as I hated the physio I threw myself into it with everything I had just so I could prove to my parents that, really, I wanted to live very much. Well, that and so I wouldn’t be stuck in bed when Dr Nielsen next came to visit. Thankfully it worked.

Then when I was fourteen a girl in my year at school that I knew only to look at killed herself with her father’s gun. Because she did it in the classroom that I just happened to have English in the school brought in a shrink to ensure that none of us poor little dears was too traumatised by the sad event. There being nothing sacred when it comes to school records, Dr Hustig knew all about my two earlier run ins with his brethren and singled me out for special attention. The fact that, annoyed at having been made to miss gym class, I was rude to him didn’t help a damn. Once again I was in alleged denial and once again I was made to spend a few quality hours being made to talk about myself.

Then there was the one who wanted to talk to me about my guilt over Stuart’s suicide attempt… And the one who’s job it was to ensure I was indeed SEALs material and wasn’t going to flip out from the pressure… And let’s not forget the flock of them that circled over me relentlessly after the wedding… Or the ones that wanted to be positive that I wasn’t just joining CI5 in the hope of having greater access to the chance of taking a bullet in the line of duty…

None of them, and this includes the times I’ve actually been willing to accept their help, have ever achieved anything for me. They prattle on, and issue forth with instructions on building yourself a list of steps to conquer, but they’ve never done me any good.

“The old lady is in a better place now.” Like, phew, there was a load off my six year old mind.

“It’s perfectly okay for you to feel distraught over the loss of your loved ones.” Fuck me. Permission to feel upset. Informative or what?

“I want you to know however that you were *forced* into pleasuring those men and that there is absolutely no reason for you to bring your own sexuality into doubt over what happened.” Wow. Thanks for that. No. Really. It makes everything *way* clearer.

It’s their job, they want to help, they’re no doubt lovely people in the private lives and I can’t stand the fucking lot of them. Dr Gerling, the over educated consultant psych in charge of putting me back together after the wedding, was the worst of the lot. If I ever see him again it will be too soon. He had me sit in his office, surrounded by family portraits and framed scribblings by his offspring, and I honestly believe he expected me to accept the futile words of comfort and understanding coming out of his mouth. It was just unbelievable.

For all the people I’ve had meaningless sex with during my life I’m still quietly positive that they’d be outnumbered by the psychiatrists I’ve been unfortunate enough to meet. Jenkins, whether he knows it or not, is just the last in a very long line. *If*, and this is a huge if, I get hit by inspiration and decide to risk returning to CI5 I’ll deal with their shrinks when I see them. Until then I just don’t want to think about it. I admit it. I’m in denial. Everything’s fine and dandy and I’m happy to be alive and I have everything to live for and I’m just a happy, bouncing ray of sunshine.

And the flying pigs circling my apartment now come fully equipped with stealth technology…

What happened, *happened*. I can’t erase the past but I can ignore it. Or at the very least try to.

In a twisted, completely warped way I almost wish Colton had skipped the foreplay and just raped me. Call me delusional, but at least that way I’d have a concrete excuse for feeling as awful as I do. I’m unblemished, not so much as a bruise litters my body, yet I feel wretched. I’ve sucked men off before (although my record before yesterday was only two in a row… and I wasn’t even particularly proud of that), and I’ve been jerked off before, but… But always by choice. I’ve always been in control. Even during my periods of fucking around I’ve always been in complete control when it comes to sex. I did what I had to do to protect Sam, but…

It disgusts me.

It was psychological… You had no choice… It could have been worse… There’s nothing to feel ashamed about… Anyone would have done what you did if they’d been in your shoes… No one thinks any less of you… You’re alive…

It doesn’t matter what I think or what I know I’ll hear from others, it still just disgusts me.

Taylor I already know I’ll never be able to look in the eye again. Backup I just want to avoid. And Sam…

Sam I want to give a wide berth. It’s my fault he was shot, he saw what become of me, and it’s for his own good -- assuming of course he himself wants anything to do with me now -- that we go our separate ways. Even if he could forgive me for my incompetence he couldn’t possibly want me after yesterday. People react differently around victims of sexual assault. They may not want to, and in most cases might do so unconsciously, but they still do. The wife of one of the men in my SEAL team was raped and he couldn’t bring himself to touch her. He still loved her and, wanting his touch, she wasn’t pushing him away, but he just couldn’t do it. Whether he was afraid of hurting or upsetting her, or whether he thought she was tainted isn’t something I know. What I do know though is that although they’d been childhood sweethearts they divorced less than a year after the assault.

It’s much easier if I just distance myself from Sam. For everyone really. He won’t have to pretend that everything’s okay and I won’t have to wait for the cracks to appear. I don’t want to hurt him anymore than I already have and this way he’ll be able to get his life back on track much quicker. It’s definitely for the best.

Shit.

Doorbell.

Hey… When did it become dark outside? Christ. More to the point, why’s the news on already? Wasn’t I just staring blankly at Countdown a couple of minutes ago?

The doorbell chimes again and I hug my cushion, the one that I hadn’t even been aware I was holding, tightly to my chest as though I think it’s some sort of talisman. My hopes that whoever it is at my door will take the lack of response to mean that they can simply go away now dies a quick death as I hear the telltale sounds of keys being jangled in the lock and reflexively hug my cushion just that little bit harder.

Shit.

Again.

Two people have keys to my apartment. One’s in hospital and the other’s been all but phone stalking me all day.

“Chris? Are you there?”

No Backup, I’m not. Chris, the one you thought you knew, doesn’t live here anymore. Now, would you kindly fuck off and leave me and my cushion in peace.

Why me? Haven’t I suffered enough already? I like Backup. I really do. She’s one of my closest friends. God knows however I don’t want to deal with her now.

“Up here Backup,” I call out wearily, resigning myself to having to attempt to play nice for as long as it will take to get rid of her.

“Why didn’t you answer the doorbell then?” she demands querulously as she walks up the stairs. “Or all the phone messages I’ve been leaving for you all day for that matter?”

“Been asleep,” I mutter, blinking in the sudden brightness as, entering the room, she turns on the overhead lights. “Is that okay with you or would you rather I checked in first?” Great. It’s started already. We’re about to indulge in a carefully fought war of words. I can just feel it.

“I was worried,” Backup replies, walking over to the sofa and peering at me as though I’m some sort of incredibly rare, never seen before specimen. She looks tired and for a split second I’m touched by her concern. Knowing what’s install for me though it doesn’t last. “You chew out Dr Jenkins, you don’t seem at all bothered by how Sam’s doing and you don’t answer my calls. What gives, Chris?”

“Nothing *gives*,” I sigh, reluctantly releasing my grip on the cushion and slowly swinging my legs off the sofa so I can sit more or less upright. “I had a shit day yesterday, in case it’s escaped your attention, and I was wanting to sleep it off. Okay? I’m sorry if I’ve worried you, Backup, but, and don’t take this the wrong way, it’s nothing really to do with you.”

“Nothing to do with me, huh?” Backup murmurs, shaking her head and giving me a nasty look. “You’re my friend, Chris. Another one of my friends, your partner incidentally, is in hospital after almost dying and you have the nerve to tell me that it’s basically none of my business? Screw you, Chris. I’m here because Sam keeps asking about you and because you never returned any of my phone calls. I can understand that you’re upset about everything that happened but that doesn’t give you the right to shut out your friends. You need to get grip.”

“I’m fine,” I mutter, making a point of looking through Backup and reaching for the remote control. “I’ve got a bit of a headache so I’ve been trying to sleep it off. I didn’t return your calls because I’m not interested in the case and don’t wish to talk about it,” I continue, turning the volume up on the television and earning myself an unimpressed look. “What I told Jenkins has nothing to do with you and I’ll talk to Malone when I’m good and ready. Sam… Sam is in excellent hands in the hospital and I know that he’s going to be okay. Is there anything else you’d like to know while you’re at it?”

Backup sighs heavily, her sour expression telling me that she knows she’s not going to get anywhere when I’m in a mood like this. “Sam wants to see you,” she responds, shrugging. “He keeps asking about you and wants to know why you haven’t been to see him.”

“Ah… So he’s well enough to chew me out for fucking up already, good to hear,” I murmur drily, ignoring Backup and feigning fascination with the news. “I’m relieved.” And I am too, incredibly so. Not that I’m going to share this with Backup though.

“Come on, Chris,” Backup states softly, almost pleadingly, “You don’t mean it like that. I know what happened to you yesterday was awful, but you’ve got to put it behind you. Everything will be okay, you’ve just got to talk about things. I’m not saying I’m the one you need to talk, or even Dr Jenkins… Anyone you trust will do.”

Yeah. Like who? I trust Sam and he’s lost to me. One way or the other I’ll get through this by myself. When I know what it is that I want to do I’ll be able to achieve it.

“Backup, please…” I whisper, finally glancing up and forcing myself to look her in the eye. “I appreciate the concern, really, I do… But not now, okay? I’ll… I’ll make it up to you but I need time. Tell Sam… Tell Sam that I… I'm sorry for everything… and that I know without him having to tell me. I think he’ll know what I mean. Please though, I mean it… Can you just go? I don’t want to talk and know I’ll only regret anything else I might say to you. I’ll be fine. Honest. I just need some time to think.”

“Are you sure?” Backup queries gently, not looking convinced. “I can stay, if you’d like, and believe me when I say I’ve got tough skin. I know you’re hurting and promise not to take offence at your behaviour.”

I shake my head, desperate for her to just leave. “Thank you, but no,” I state quietly. “If you could just pass my message on to Sam then you’ll have done more than enough for me. I’ll be okay Backup. I’m… I’m a survivor… Remember? I always land on my feet.”

“When you put it that way,” Backup smiles wanly, backing away from the sofa. “I’m not happy about this, but I’ll go… Just promise me you’ll call me… or *someone*… when you want to talk. You don’t have to go through this alone. We’re here for you, Chris…”

“Thank you,” I murmur, meaning it even though I don’t sound like I do. “I just need a little time, that’s all.”

“Mmm… I’ll be seeing you then,” Backup replies dully, starting to walk over towards the stairs. “Next time I call though, either pick up the phone or call me back, okay? It’ll make me feel better.”

“Promise,” I mutter, watching her go and longing to be alone again. “Bye, Backup.”

“Bye. I’ll…” Trailing off, Backup suddenly comes to a stop at the top of the stairs and swears. “Shit! Almost forgot to tell you that we picked up Colton and his two henchmen. Contrary to his assertions that he knew how CI5 operated he didn’t pick up that the pilot in his helicopter was one our agents until it was too late. I know it’s of cold comfort, but at least we’ve got him.”

“That’s great,” I whisper, surprised that I don’t actually feel anything at this piece of news. “CI5 win yet again.”

“Something like that,” Backup responds flatly, turning around and alarming me by walking back over to the dining table. “We also got your gun back,” she adds, ferreting in her handbag and bringing out the Smith & Wesson. “Ballistics have finished with it so… here… you can have it back.” With that she puts the gun carefully on the table and, without waiting for a response, silently leaves.

I almost want to stop her. So much for wanting to be alone.

The gun I’d hoped never to see again stares at me accusingly and I suddenly realise that I *have* got to get out of here. I hadn’t wanted to leave the apartment but now I do. Desperately in fact.

It doesn’t matter where I go, where I end up, I just have to go.

~*~

Okay. When did this happen and why didn’t anyone see fit to tell me? What used to be Neptune is now Libido. I mean, of *course* it is. Honestly. You don’t frequent a bar for over eighteen months and they have the nerve to change everything -- name, décor, the *lot* -- on you. I mean, where’s the decency in that? Sure Neptune was a dive, but it was dive I was familiar with and one that I’d come here expecting to find.

Oh, and let’s not forget the added bonus of it being, according to the very bright and very glittery poster stuck on the wall, ‘Lust Night’. Wonderful. Just what I need. Lust Night at Libido. Just my kinda scene. Not that I suppose I can really complain. I was only coming to Neptune, a gay bar I used to haunt with alarming frequency, to deaden my mind anyway and I’m sure Libido will be able to produce the same result. Drink to forget, pick up, drink to pass out, get picked up - it doesn’t matter. Anywhere would have to be better than home. Even Libido, so-called Lust Night and all.

My desire to be surrounded my strangers who don’t care if I live or die being stronger than my desire to avoid Libido like the plague, I hand my five pound entry fee to the very buff and very bored looking doorman and enter the club. Pulsating pop music, one of the Minogue sisters I think, assails my eardrums and makes my head hurt even more than it had been already. I wish, too late, that I’d had enough common sense to have popped a couple of Nurofen before venturing out and resign myself to it getting worse before it has any hope of getting better.

After Backup had left all I cared about was getting out of the apartment. Fleeing being the only thing I could think of, it was all I could do to shower, shave and dress. I haven’t had anything to eat since the piece of toast I forced down my throat around lunchtime and know that drinking on an empty stomach is like sending out an engraved invitation to feel like shit, but can’t find it in myself to care. The way I see it a hangover is hardly going to make things greatly worse. I feel like shit already so I may as well drink. That way I’ll at least be able to pretend that I have a valid reason for feeling the way I do.

Ignoring the happy and smiling men milling around me, I walk into the main body of the club and look around for the bar. If I’m going to survive the noise I need a drink and I need one quickly. Pop music as a rule doesn’t bother me but the volume in Libido is loud enough to wake the dead. On the plus side however, ignoring the fact that I can feel the vibrations of the music in every fibre of my body, it’s going to make holding a conversation near on impossible. Which needless to say suits me just fine.

A small stage is set up opposite where I’m standing and for a moment I forget my need for a drink as I watch the performance taking place on it. A young drag queen with incredible make-up and resplendent in a red sequined dress with a thigh high split is lip-syncing to the song while near-naked dancers shake their stuff behind him. It strikes me, as I look at the dancers in their tight white shorts and little else, that I’ve wandered into a meat market. None of the few men staring at the stage are looking at the dancer’s faces. They’re all staring at their prominently displayed crotches, their expressions stuck on leer.

The majority of the men here are here for sex. Not the music or the show, just sex. They pay their five pound to get in and they’re all but guaranteed a fuck. Meaningless, nameless, emotionless sex. Proving that I’ve reached the point of no return, this doesn’t bother me in the slightest. Perhaps it’s even why I came here.

Drink to forget. Fuck to forget. Maybe it’s just me but I’ve never really been able to differentiate between the two. They can both kill you. They both offer the same releases. Their costs are both equally as high and neither of them have a one hundred percent success rate. I should know, I’ve tried both.

The song finishing, the drag queen and dancers strike a pose on stage before swiftly starting up again in time to the next song. Their spell over me broken, I spot the bar and, pushing through the throng of sweaty dancers on the dance floor, make my way over to it. Hands ghost over my butt and torso but I pay them no heed. Nor do I look anyone in the eye. I’m here but I’m not. I feel their hands yet I feel nothing. It’s like I’m existing a void or am literally dead from the feet up. As strange as the feeling is though, it’s one that I’m both nonetheless familiar with and know I can function through.

Reaching the bar, I spy a conveniently vacated stool and perch myself on it. I don’t want to dance or pretend to be having a good time and will just sit here, waiting. If someone’s desperate or stupid enough to want me then they can damn well come and get me. Getting myself to this point was a big enough ask without actually having to exert any more energy in my pathetic pursuit of increasing numbness.

Ordering a vodka from the blue-haired barman, I lean my back against the counter and idly survey the crowd. Not having been to a club like this for a very long time, they make me feel old. Not everyone is attractive or younger than I am, but they all look as though they’re genuinely happy. It might only be thanks to alcohol or drugs but they look *alive*, not to mention ecstatic to be so. I know I don’t -- for so many reasons -- belong here but don’t know where else I could go.

“Hey, beautiful, can I buy you a drink?”

Fuck. That was quick. I either don’t look like I feel or I’ve got a flashing neon sign over my head that reads ‘Easy Prey’. Again with being called beautiful though. Much more and I’ll begin to get a complex.

Swivelling on my barstool, I look my prospective friend up and down and shrug nonchalantly. “Vodka, straight,” I state, deciding against favouring him with a forced smile. It’s not like I want to appear too eager or anything. He’ll do though, assuming of course I don’t scare him off. Tall, slim, with nondescript brown hair and brilliantly blue eyes that have to come courtesy of contacts, he’s attractive enough in a mundane way. He looks nothing like Sam, which is something that works incredibly well in his favour.

“Tony,” he smiles, displaying teeth that would have cost a small fortune in dental work and offering me his hand. “Nice to meet you.”

“James,” I lie smoothly, taking his hand and shaking it limply. Telling him my real name will add nothing to the encounter and besides, I don’t want him to know it.

“Come here often?” Tony asks as he waits for the barman to stop flirting with the piece of blond jailbait in the FCUK t-shirt all but rubbing himself up against the other end of the bar.

I raise an eyebrow, quickly coming to the conclusion that making small talk or flirting isn’t Tony’s forte and hoping like crazy that he’s not silly enough to view me as prospective boyfriend material. “First time,” I drawl, injecting the slightest twang of accent into my voice and praying that he buys my poor homesick tourist act.

“An American!” he exclaims, his smile broadening as he falls hook, line and sinker. “Wow. I bet the clubs are better back home than they are here.”

“Bigger,” I reply dismissively, not interested in talking to Tony but not wanting to make the first move either. “More action, less talk too,” I add, sighing.

Tony’s eyes light up. “You lookin’ for action?” he queries, his gaze dropping from my face down to my lap.

I shrug and take a sip of my vodka. “Maybe…” I murmur, putting the glass back down and slowly licking my lips. Subtle as a sledgehammer, that’s me all over. “Would have to be more interesting than sitting here talking…”

“Come on then,” Tony declares, moving away from the bar, his offer of a drink forgotten. “You want action I’ll give it to you.”

Quickly finishing my drink, I slip off the barstool and follow him as he leads the way not in the direction of the exit but towards the darkened area behind the stage. For a split second I hesitate, public sex never, not even when I’ve been at my worst, having been my thing. It’s an aspect of gay culture that I’ve never really been able to get my head around, the compulsion to get off right here right now and surrounded by strangers. I’ve never been to a sauna either and don’t exactly think my life is lacking for it. Still…

It’d be a blatant lie to say I cared at the moment.

I just don’t. I know I *should*, but I don’t. Besides, unlike yesterday I’m the one in complete control. There’s no one other than myself to think about and there isn’t a gun levelled at my chest. I’m here, doing this, because I choose to. Aiming my expectations any higher would just result in disappointment. It may not be what I want, but it’ll do. And, not that I’d thought of it this way before, it’ll prove to myself that I *can* do it, that I can still give myself to another by my own free will. It’s something of a small victory but it’s still a victory over that fucker Colton and one that I desperately need.

My mind made up, I follow Tony behind the stage and come face to face with the closest I’ve ever been to an orgy before. Blue light bathes the area and couples, in some cases threesomes, are engaged in all sorts of sexual acts, oblivious to -- or getting off on -- the extreme proximity of men they wouldn’t know if they fell over them. The air is heavy with the scent of sex. I find nothing erotic about the scene but make no attempt to leave.

“This enough action for you?” Tony purrs in my ear before abruptly spinning me around and pinning me against the wall. I’m stronger than he is, not to mention trained to within an inch of my life, but I let him manhandle me without comment. If I wanted to escape I could and know that I’m in no danger. Not physically anyway. Mentally… Well, I think that’s pretty much terminal already.

“Perfect,” I retort flatly, dodging his lips as he tries to kiss me and pushing him far enough away so I can drop fluidly to me knees. Perhaps too late I realise that I don’t want him touching me.

Grunting appreciatively, Tony unzips his fly and pulls out his cock.

Taking it in my mouth, I suddenly wonder just what the fuck it is I think I’m doing here.

I’m in control… I am. I know what it is I’m doing… I do.

I…

Oh God.

I don’t care. I honest to goodness don’t give a fuck.

Tuning out the music -- 'Call it luck, call it fate, call me beautiful to my face' -- thumping in my ears and the fact I’m clothed, I place my hands behind my back, close my eyes and it’s yesterday all over again.

And I just don’t fucking care.

I could get up and walk away, but what’s the point? I’d only go home and wallow in self pity. Here I’m at least achieving something.

I can do this.

I can.

~*~

Another night. Another club. Another theme.

Tonight it’s Hellfire at Hard Core.

It’s come to my attention that gay clubs are slightly obsessed by theme nights. Apparently the drugs, alcohol, deafening music, sweaty bodies and promises of free sex aren’t enough in this day and age to pull in the punters. Hence, *apparently*, the need for themes.

Last night was Pecs Of Death at Asylum. The sculptured chests on display were truly works of art. I kept my shirt on and sucked off the runner up in the bathroom. He admired himself in the mirror for the entire time. If I hadn’t been in the way I’m sure he would have leant forward and planted a great big sloppy kiss on his reflection. It was hardly a life-affirming experience. Not, I hasten to add, that that’s what I’d been looking for. I *got* what I was there for. End of story.

The night before that was Dragorama at Utopia. Having slunk directly into the back rooms I missed the show. And that, thanks to the bottle of Amyl I had shoved under my nose, is about all I can recall of the night. It might have been good or it might have been atrocious, I wouldn’t know.

And the night before that I… I just can’t remember at all. The clubs, faces, and cocks pretty much look the same to me now. Hard Core, even with it’s throbbing industrial music, bondage theme, S&M demonstrations, and hairy chested bears prowling around, is only slightly different from all the others. Not a lot, seeing as it’s still only about sex, but a little. The scrap of self-respect I have left dictates I never go to the same club twice. By my reckoning it’ll take me a month -- to reach absolute rock bottom -- to get through them all before I have to rethink my habits.

Six days have passed since… since that day in the warehouse and my mood hasn’t altered. Things have arguably got worse yet I feel essentially no different. I’ve got the act of functioning -- going through the motions that is -- down pat. Nothing bothers me. I can’t even remember the last time I smiled or laughed. There’s nothing in my life that I derive pleasure from and I lack the prerequisite faith or hope to kid myself that things will no doubt one day improve. Knowing that I felt like this after the wedding yet somehow still managed to pull myself together doesn’t help. Nothing does.

I’m now, as of three days ago, officially suspended from CI5. In a last ditch effort to make me see sense Malone himself arrived uninvited on my doorstep and issued forth with the ‘either shape up or ship out’ ultimatum. It being a case of too little too late, I handed him my ID and slowly shut the door in his face. I was back on the sofa before he gave up and stopped hammering on the door.

My behaviour pushing every one of Backup’s buttons, even ones I don’t think she knew she had, she’s now stopped the softly, softly approach and has no qualms sharing with me what little she thinks of me. I’m a quitter. I should wake up to myself. I’m making a huge fucking mistake and need to let people help me. I’m letting Sam down. I’m letting CI5 down. I’m letting myself down.

The fact that everything she says is true and that I agree with her is however hugely irrelevant. Listening to the increasingly expletive laden messages she leaves me is one of my many masochistic treats for the day. I don’t doubt that she genuinely cares but I honestly wish she didn’t. Worrying about me is just a waste of her time and I know for a fact she has better things to do with her time.

Besides, I know what I’m doing. I do. I’m protecting Sam and I’m saving CI5 from the risk of me fucking up any more assignments. There might be a better way of going about it but I can’t for the life of me think of it at the moment. Colton, who in the space of a few minutes seemed to know the true me better than anyone, all but said I good for nothing but sucking cock and I’m well into proving his character assassination correct. I go to the clubs at night and sleep or take up space on the sofa during the day. The hours pass in a haze of nothingness. I’ve reached the stage where I simply don’t even think about what I’m doing anymore. Not even knowing that the world is full of people far worse off than me can alter my self-absorbed, miserable as hell mindset. I don’t think about Sam… or CI5… or my past… I don’t think about anything. As with everything, I just can’t see the point. My existence revolves around the clubs and the sex, nothing more. Everything else is either history or myth.

Albeit worth next to nothing, it’s my life and I’m the one in control of it. I’m doing these things because I choose to, not because I’m so depressed that I can’t so much as believe in the light at the end of the tunnel let alone see it on the horizon.

It’s true. Honestly.

Only wanting one thing from Hard Core, I pause my aimless wandering in front of a makeshift stage set up to demonstrate so-called spanking techniques and try to work out where I should go. I don’t however question what it is I’m actually doing in a leather club and feel no compulsion to turn around and go home. I feel lost, but that’s par for the course these days. What’s happening on stage isn’t something I pay any attention to. A quick glance tells me that a large and well built man wearing leather chaps and matching leather g-string is using what looks suspiciously like a table-tennis bat to spank another man, who has his jeans around his ankles, on his Calvin Klein underwear clad ass as the audience around me whistle and jeer. Finding the show uninteresting, I turn my back on it as I wait for inspiration to hit. Men jostle me, many copping a feel as they pass, as I stand flatfooted, my mind slowly churning through my options. Being a gay club, leather orientated or not, there’d have to be a darkened backroom somewhere. That much is a given. What I don’t know though is whether that’s what I want or whether, for a change, I want to see if someone will take me home with them.

“You. How about it?”

Not knowing that the gruff voice is talking to me, I ignore it and am subsequently slightly startled when a large hand roughly squeezes my shoulder. Turning to face the owner of the offending hand, my surprise grows a notch when I see that it’s the man from the stage, the one in the leather chaps. I’d love to say I’m alarmed to find him looking at me calculatingly, but, well, I’m not. Surprised yeah, but not bothered. It’d take more than an accountant -- by the looks of his boring haircut -- masquerading as a master in a dingy club to bother me these days. Last week, my pride intact and my sexuality something I still gained pleasure from, I would have run a mile, but not now.

“How about *what*?” I scowl, straightening my spine and staring at him.

“You up to being demonstrated on?” he growls, flexing his considerable muscles for the benefit of the salivating crowd. He inspires neither fear or interest in me. I look at him and quite literally feel nothing. It’s tragic, but I honestly just don’t care.

I shrug, unconcerned by either his offer or where it’s going to lead me. “Whatever,” I mutter flatly, coldly looking him in the eye. “You want me I’m all yours.”

The man looks a little surprised by my blunt reply and lets go of my shoulder. “You don’t have to,” he whispers, leaning forward in order to talk directly into my left ear. “There’s plenty of others that’d just love to volunteer.”

“Did I say I wouldn’t do it?” I sneer, pushing past him and stepping onto the stage to the delight of the assembled crowd who clap and cheer. I know what’s going to happen, that some man I’ve never met before is going to spank me for the entertainment of a bunch of drunk as fuck men and, no surprise here, feel nothing. I’m literally so gone that my lack of concern doesn’t even worry me. So be it. Unlike the other day no one’s *making* me. I tell myself that this counts for something important, that it has to.

Turning around, I present my back to the crowd as the man joins me on the stage. “Are you absolutely sure about this?” he murmurs once again in my ear, his apparent worry that I’m not good show material doing nothing to soothe me.

“Just fucking get on with it, why don’t you,” I state icily. “You picked me for your sordid little act and now I’m here, so let’s get the fuck on with it.”

“As you wish,” he replies, roughly pulling my leather jacket off and throwing it into a small enclosed area off the right side of the stage. I put up no resistance to his stripping of me and close my eyes as he pulls my t-shirt over my head. More cheers greet the sight of my bare back. When his hands reach round me and undo my belt I only just suppress the urge to shiver. By the time my jeans are around my ankles I’ve completely switched off from my surroundings and hardly even feel it when the palm of his hand slaps down hard on my butt.

I was never spanked as a child, my idea of kinky is candle light and silk ties… and look at me now. It defies belief.

I don’t know how long the ‘demonstration’ goes for or how many times his hand lands on my ass. The crowd count, but all I hear is a dull, distant noise. The pain I feel, but only just. I don’t whimper or even flinch and, not giving a good show, somehow doubt I’ll be asked back for a repeat performance. Focussed solely on the void in my head, I don’t even know that he’s stopped until I feel cool air caressing the tender skin of my butt and realise that he’s half pulled down my briefs to expose the reddened proof of his handy -- no pun intended -- work. The men go wild and the sound of their wolf-whistles manages to achieve what should have been impossible and they drown out the thudding music. I only open my eyes again when my underwear is back in place and the man has pulled my jeans back up. For a second the room spins around me and I see stars, but that’s all I seem to have achieved from the experience.

“Come with me,” the man grunts, grabbing me by the arm and all but dragging me into the small enclosed area off the side of the stage.

“What? And disappoint my new fans?” I drawl, shaking off his hand and glowering at him dully. Spying my t-shirt and jacket on the floor, I snatch them up and quickly put them on. “Look, it’s been…”

“You don’t belong here,” he interrupts softly, shaking his head and looking at me closely.

“What do you mean I don’t *belong* here?” I snap, annoyed that he seems to think just because he’s spanked me he now has the authority to offer me some unsolicited advice. “I came here of my own free will and paid my money just like everyone else out there. I’ve as much right to be here as anyone.”

“You don’t belong here,” the man repeats, his expression softening and making him look even more like an accountant. A half naked, buff, and glistening with sweat accountant, yeah, but an accountant nonetheless. “And you know it,” he adds gently.

“What’s your problem, huh?” I scowl, liking his desire to chat far less than I did his hand on my butt. “I took it without complaint, so I don’t know what you’re going on about.”

“You took it, yeah,” he replies, taking a step closer and suddenly closing his hand around my crotch, “but you didn’t enjoy it.”

I jump back immediately, my heart pounding in my chest, but the damage has been done. He’s flustered me now. For all my adventures in clubland I’ve allowed no one, not that I can remember anyway, to touch me. I’ll suck, and I’ll even let myself be fucked, but I draw the line at having my cock touched. Irrationally, given the rest of my wanton behaviour, it reminds me too closely of Colton. “I…” Fuck. I can’t think of anything to say and can feel myself blushing

“Most blokes get off on it,” the man continues, stepping back from me and folding his arms across his considerable chest. “Hell, they usually shoot before I’ve even finished. You… You though, shit man, you weren’t even on stage with me. You took it, yeah, there’s no doubt about that. I reckon you could take just about anything though and still feel nothing. It might seem far out but this is still about pleasure, about release. It’s not about punishment.”

“Yeah… Whatever,” I mumble, anxiously looking around for a way to get out and really not wanting to listen to him tell me things that I already know.

“There’s easier ways to forget,” he states, shrugging. “Drink, take drugs, get a hobby. I’m telling you man, you don’t belong here. You might think you do, that you’ve got everything perfectly under control, but you don’t. I’ve known you for what, fifteen minutes or something and I already know that you’re in danger of losing it once and for all. My advice mate, take that beautiful face and arse of yours and go home. There’s nothing for you here.”

Christ. Everyone’s an amateur psychiatrist. I should give this guy Backup’s number and they could discuss my problems to their heart’s content.

“Thanks for the advice,” I mutter sourly. “Next time I want analysing I’ll be sure to look you up.” With that I turn around and stalk through the door back into the club. My legs feel dithery but I don’t know whether that has to do with the pain in my butt or what the man’s just said to me. His words, not that I care to admit it, hit far harder than his hand did though.

“Hey! I saw you on stage,” an unknown voice states appreciatively from behind me. “You’re hot. How about you and your beautiful butt joining me for a drink?”

Whirling around, I look at my admirer, an attractive man with a shaven head and a pierced nose and force myself to smile. “Sounds good,” I reply, letting him drape his arm around my shoulders and lead me towards the bar. Feeling eyes bore into the back of my head, I risk a glance behind me and find Mr Amateur Psychiatrist staring after me, his expression sad.

He’s mistaken though, about everything. Not only don’t I deserve his apparent pity, he’s wrong, I do belong here. I’ve made my bed and now I’m lying in it.

~*~

I have now, no question about it, reached absolute rock bottom. Not that I knew it at the time, everything else was merely a precursor to the main event. Colton, Jenkins’ unwanted words of alleged wisdom, the clubs, the anonymous sex, the public spanking… They all pale in comparison to how I’m feeling now.

This time I’ve gone too far. I have. I don’t know where I am and, perhaps more pressingly, I don’t know the names of the two naked men I happen to be in bed with. For a change more than my head hurts. In fact my entire body hurts, some parts more than others. I can’t remember how I got here, wherever the hell here is, and can only assume I must have taken something that I really shouldn’t have. Friction burns on my wrists indicate some sort of bondage scene but I’m not restrained now and appear to be in a perfectly normal suburban bedroom. I don’t recognise the two men sprawled loosely around each other next to me and, tentatively swinging my legs over the edge of the mattress, sit up. My body complains at being made to move and I have to choke back a hiss of pain as my butt informs me in no uncertain terms that it’s had more than enough of a good thing for the time being.

Not knowing how I came to be here or what happened last night scares me. For the first time in close to two weeks I feel something other than nothingness, and that’s fear. Fucking to forget has just taken on a horrible new meaning and I don’t like it. While I know that I no doubt agreed to whatever took place, and that the men can’t be raving psychopaths or I wouldn’t have ended up sleeping in their bed with them, I still feel uncomfortable and somewhat disgusted with myself. They would have enjoyed themselves, I probably gave every indication of having enjoyed myself, and…

Fuck.

I honestly remember next to nothing about the ten or so hours. I went to a club, Mecca, I think, and then… And then nothing. Until now. The only thing I know for certain is that this time I’ve gone too far. I’m not going to so far as to say I suddenly care about not caring, like I did after Steven’s little ‘gift’ made me see the light so to speak, but I know inside that something’s got to give, that I can’t keep this up.

The very tacky hot-pink clock radio on the equally as tacky white lacquered bedside table tells me that it’s just after eight in the morning and I quickly reach the conclusion that I want to get the hell out of here before my bed mates wake up. God knows I don’t want to talk to them let alone be faced with the possible inquiry as to whether I enjoyed last night. For some reason I don’t really think, ‘yeah… it was great… ah… remind me what exactly happened again’, would go down overly well. Quite frankly I think I’ll just lean towards the whole ‘ignorance is bliss’ school of thought and not stress myself over trying to remember the details. I’m alive, I don’t appear to be trapped, I hurt but it’s nothing an extremely hot shower, a couple of Nurofen and a nap won’t cure, and I may very well have just been slapped in the face with a much needed wake-up call.

Standing up, I stretch sore muscles and tiptoe away from the bed. The two men, who I kinda think have to be partners with a shared thing for an extra -- and why sugar coat it -- cock to liven things up, don’t stir and continue to snore away happily. Muted sunlight streams through the room’s small window and, to my added discomfort, I can’t see any sign of my clothes lying on the floor. Not being able to hear any sounds of life throughout the rest of the house or apartment or whatever it is, I offer a prayer of hope to the unknown in respect to finding my clothes scattered somewhere and, throwing caution to the winds, sneak out of the room. The corridor I find myself in, with it’s bland cream walls and carefully framed prints, reinforces to my distinct relief my thought that I’m most likely deep in the bowels of suburbia somewhere and that things aren’t really as bad as they first seemed.

A vague recollection of being given a glass of beer on a bright red sofa in the living room popping into my head sees me creeping silently down the stairs and in the direction of where I hope to find both the lounge room and my clothes. Thankfully, as I have no idea where I was going to look next, my clothes, along with those that have to belong to my hosts, are strewn all over the living room carpet. My day suddenly looking up, I pull them quickly on, ignoring the residual aches and pains in my body in my haste to escape. Catching sight of a framed photograph of two smiling men with their arms around each other on the cluttered mantelpiece over the disused fireplace, I deduce that they must be the two men upstairs. They look happy together and for a moment I wonder what it is they get out of picking up strangers in clubs and taking them home with them. When I love someone I get indignant if someone else so much as ogles them in the street. The thought of actually sharing my lover with others simply doesn’t compute. But hey, to each their own. Besides, what with my recent nocturnal prowling it’s not like I really have any right to comment on the sexuality and habits of others at the moment. Pot calling the kettle black time methinks.

Dressed, and after having confirmed that both my wallet and keys are still in the pocket of my jacket, I take one last look around me before resigning myself to perhaps never knowing what really went on and slipping out the front door. My car is parked on the street and I don’t think I’ve ever been so pleased to see it before. Not having any freakin’ idea where I am won’t matter as GPS will guide me home and I’m pathetically grateful for it having been installed in the car. Nothing I see in the street looks familiar. It’s a nice street, tree lined with obviously cared for maisonettes on either side, but to me I could be anywhere.

Wanting to be home and as far away from here as possible, I get in the car and within a matter of seconds am driving off down the street. A give way sign gives me the opportunity to boot up the GPS and to my shock it tells me that I’m on the other side of London to my apartment and that as it’s peak hour it’s going to take me close to two hours to get home. And that’s the best case scenario.

Fuck it. Next time I go home with strangers they can damn well live on my side of town.

Not that there’s going to be a next time, not if I actually have enough sense to take last night for the warning it should be. Sticking to the clubs or simply giving up and staying in bed would have to be safer for my mental health.

My route home plotted in my head, I turn off the GPS and, autopilot kicking in, focus on my driving. It takes, and I know this for a fact because I spent a lot of time staring at the clock while stuck in the many fucking traffic jams I was fortunate enough to encounter, exactly two hours before I’m pulling into my drive. All I can think about is having a shower and crawling into bed. I’m in such need for comfort that I’ll even eschew sleeping on the sofa for the bed proper. I want to feel warm and to kid myself that I’m clean. Failing that I’ll be content with going to sleep.

The first thing I notice as I unlock the front door and go inside is that the alarm isn’t on. Putting this down to my mind being all over the shop and that I probably didn’t even turn it on when I left last night, I’m not too bothered though and don’t think anything of it. My desire for a shower being all consuming, I start to undress as I walk up the stairs, dropping both my jacket and my sweater carelessly over the banister as I go. Looking down at my arms I see that they’re covered in barely visible bruises and that the marks around my wrist look even worse in the bright light of my apartment than they did back in the unknown bedroom. Already healing scratches, that I can’t even feel, mar my torso and my skin crawls as I imagine what I must have got up to.

Hang on… Bright light… Why’s it so bright in here? Daylight being something I’ve wanted to avoid at all costs -- too cheery, too vibrant, too much related to the realm of the living -- the drapes have been constantly closed and I’ve been pretty much existing by the light of the television screen. The television which is now off, even though I know I left it on when I went out last night…

Just what the fuck’s going on here? If Backup’s decided to take it upon herself to play housekeeper then the few words I’m going to share with her on the subject are going to be neither pleasant nor appreciative.

Sensing movement in the bedroom, I fight to rein in the anger I can feel bubbling in my veins and am about to stalk over there when my uninvited visitor saves me the bother and materialises in the doorway. My anger immediately deserting me, my mouth gapes open and I stare in disbelief at just about the last person I expected to see standing in my bedroom.

Sam.

Oh… Christ…

Sam looking like death warmed up and who’s looking at me as though I’m some sort of vile insect. For a split second I think I see what could only be concern flicker through his tired eyes but now he’s just staring at -- through -- me, his expression closed off and unreadable.

Not that I want to, in a moment of clarity that I could well and truly do without I see three images simultaneously. I see Sam, his face pale and drawn and with dark circles under his eyes, wearing track pants and a windcheater, neither of which I swear were this loose on him last time I saw him in them. He looks both exhausted and frail and I know without having to be told that he’s discharged himself from hospital against the doctor’s wishes.

I then see my hovel of an apartment for the first time in natural light for over ten days. It’s disgusting. The sofa cushions are half flattened out of shape and the two blankets I’d dragged out of the bedroom to hide under are in an untidy heap on the floor in front of it. Coffee cups, some half full and giving off a not overly delicate aroma, litter the coffee table and take-away containers are scattered almost everywhere. They all still have food in them. I haven’t even picked up the pieces of the mug I broke and the gun is still sitting precariously close to the edge of the dining table. The room’s so rank that I’m quite frankly surprised that it’s not crawling with rats. If I needed more proof that Sam’s weak and not feeling himself then the fact that he hasn’t cleaned any of the mess up gives it to me. Under normal circumstances he would have started tidying up even before he’d taken his jacket off. My housekeeping skills aren’t actually as deplorable as Sam would like the world to believe but this is a new low even for me.

Then, last but not least, I see me. And what a sight I make. Bare chest, unbelted jeans sitting loosely on my hips because I’ve probably lost as much weight as Sam has, unshaven, dishevelled… Fucked.

And knowing that this, both me and the rubbish dump masquerading as a living room, is what Sam’s seeing pierces me to the core.

Shit. Fuck. Now what?

“You look like you’ve seen a ghost,” Sam murmurs sarcastically, leaning against the doorframe for support and saving me from having to come up with something suitably bland and meaningless to fill the silence with. “What’s the matter, Chris? Did you honestly think I was dead? Speaking for myself, what with your apparently terminal lack of interest in how I was doing, it sure felt that way.”

“I…” I’m not ready for this and want to spin on my heels, to retreat out of my own home. “What are you doing out of hospital?” I query dully, folding my arms across my chest in an attempt to hide the bruises and scratches.

“I escaped,” Sam replies flatly, his gaze never leaving me. “They wanted me to stay in for another couple of days at least but I dug my heels in and insisted. Unlike some people I actually wanted to see my partner and know how he is.”

“Well you’ve seen me now,” I mutter, slipping unconsciously into defensive mode. “I think you can see for yourself how I am. Now, let me call you a cab and you can go back to hospital. Where, I hasten to add, you look as though you belong.” Instinct makes me want to get to my knees and beg Sam’s forgiveness before putting him to bed and lavishing care and affection on him, but I know that I can’t. I have to be strong and continue with my original plan of keeping Sam a safe distance away from me. And if that means hurting him further then… Then I’ll just have to see what I can do.

“I’m not going back to hospital,” Sam responds firmly, wincing as he makes to stand up straight before deciding that he’s better off remaining leaning against the doorframe. He’s clearly not well and knowing that he’s discharged himself because of me manages to make me feel just that little bit worse about things. “I’m staying here with you and you’re going to ensure that I don’t do something stupid,” he continues matter-of-factly. “You know, like go out and find whoever it was that did that to your arms and chest and beat the living crap out of them.”

It never rains it always has to fucking pour. “I… I let… No. I *wanted* it, so you’ve got absolutely nothing to concern yourself about there,” I lie, not even sounding very convincing to my own ears and hoping that for the time being at least Sam lets it slip. “And don’t be fucking stupid. You can’t stay here! You should be in hospital and… and I don’t want you here.” Wonderful. Lie number two sounds more believable thanks to a note of desperation creeping into my voice. Stay here? God. What a thought.

“I’m staying here with you,” Sam repeats stubbornly, “whether you like it or not. You might feel it’s perfectly okay to abandon me for whatever reasons you’ve got floating through your head but I’ll be damned if I’m going to abandon you. Now, seeing as I’m in no fit state to go anywhere or do anything, this means the only way I can keep an eye on you is to live with you. If you don’t like it you’d better call the police and report that you’ve got an intruder who won’t leave because, and I mean it, Chris, I’m not going anywhere.”

“You’re making a mistake,” I murmur pleadingly, knowing that I may as well be saving my breath. Sam is nothing if not as stubborn as he is determined. You only have to look at how he fought to get me in the first place. He won’t leave of his own free will and I simply don’t have it in me to kick him out, be it in his best interests or not. If he was well, and we could scream at each other until I managed to shove him out the front door, then yeah, but not like this. I have enough on my mind without the possibility of being the one to blame for making Sam sicker. “You’re making a huge fucking mistake,” I add, shaking my head. “If you weren’t high on painkillers you’d know now that I’m nothing but a menace to your well being and that you’re better off far, far away from me. Honestly, Sam, I’m… I’m fine. You don’t need to look out for me and…”

“No?” Sam interrupts, this time succeeding in standing up straight and taking a slow, hesitant step towards me. “If that’s what fine looks like then I’d hate to see fucked up,” he continues drily, making it as far as the stereo before having to come to a stop and grimacing in pain. “I don’t know what’s going through your mind, Chris. Sometimes I think I know everything there is to know about you and other times, like now, I feel as though I don’t know you at all. I… Call me stupid or drugged to the eyeballs, but I love you… I love you and I’m not giving you up without a fight and you’re just going to have to come to terms with it.”

“You’re far better off without me,” I protest weakly as, unable to see Sam in so much obvious pain, I move closer to him. “I’m, and you can’t say I’ve never told you this, nothing but trouble and now that should be clear even to you. I… I didn’t come to see you in hospital and haven’t debated my suspension because I know it’s the right thing to do… For you and for everyone.”

“You’re talking bollocks,” Sam sighs, what little colour there was in his face to begin with draining away as his body makes it known that it’s under too much pressure and needs to be resting. “What happened in the warehouse… Christ, Chris, you can’t blame yourself for that…”

“I can and I do,” I reply bluntly, gesturing into the bedroom and abruptly changing the subject. “Come on you, let’s get you to bed. If I can’t get rid of you then I don’t want you dropping dead on my floor and think you should get some rest. I assume Backup was the kind soul who deposited you on my doorstep and that she ensured you came fully equipped with all your needed drugs and the like, yeah?”

Sam nods. “Yeah… She didn’t want me coming here and warned me that I wouldn’t get a warm welcome but I wouldn’t be swayed,” he murmurs, shuffling obediently into the bedroom and immediately sinking down on the edge of the bed. “I had to see you.”

“And now that you have, do you feel any better for it?” I query blandly, spotting Sam’s overnight bag on the floor and crouching down in order to pull the drugs out of it that I know have to be in there.

“I don’t know,” Sam whispers quietly, “I just don’t know…”

Looking up, I find Sam looking at me, his expression sad. “We’ll talk… Not now, when you’re better… But we will, I promise,” I murmur, grabbing the bag containing the numerous bottles and packets of pills and standing up. “First you need to rest though. I don’t want you here for various reasons, but I won’t kick you out,” I continue wearily, placing the bag on the bedside table. “Here. Ferret out what you need while I get you a glass of water.” Not waiting for a response, I hotfoot it out of the bedroom and make my way to the kitchen.

Strangely, I feel curiously calm about this new development. I don’t want Sam here, and have my doubts that even my best efforts to look after him will make things worse, but what can I do about it? He’s here now and he’s made it pretty clear that here’s where he’s staying. If I left he’d only follow. This way, when he’s better, I’ll present my case to him in clear and concise terms and he’ll just have to deal with it.

Glass of water obtained, I return to the bedroom and find Sam already under the duvet and sitting up in bed, three pills neatly laid out on the bedside table. Handing him the water, he picks up the pills and quickly swallows them before giving me back the glass and lying down. “Thanks,” he murmurs, flinching as he settles himself.

“First thing we talk about when you wake up is your pill and treatment regime,” I state gently, pulling the drapes closed. “And that’s one thing that isn’t up for debate,” I add, grabbing a random selection of clean clothes from the chest of drawer to put on after the shower I’m now going to have to take in the downstairs bathroom so as not to disrupt Sam, before walking out of the room. “Sleep well, Sam…”

It’s, not that I want to admit it, good to have you back.

Even if it is only for a short while.

~*~

“I take it then that you didn’t evict him,” Backup calls out smugly as she gets out of her car and walks up my drive. I’m not surprised to see her but nor am I what you’d exactly call delighted and don’t bother smiling by way of greeting.

“I tried,” I retort, returning my attention to grabbing grocery bags out of the trunk of my car. “Believe me, I tried.”

“For what it’s worth, so did I. I tried to talk him out of coming here but he wouldn’t have a bar of it,” Backup replies, sidling up to me and peering in the boot. “God, Chris, did you actually leave anything at Tescos or did you buy up the entire store?” she adds, snorting back laughter.

“Very droll,” I sigh, wondering idly how much offence she’d take if I simply told her to get the fuck off my property. Something tells me though that she’d merely pretend not to hear me and carry on blithely sticking her nose in where I really don’t want it. Backup in her own way is as stubborn as Sam is and to my eternal displeasure I know she’s not going to leave me alone until I’m functioning at the level she expects of me. “If I’m going to be stuck with an unwanted houseguest then I thought I’d better feed him. Is that okay with you or should I have phoned and asked your permission first?” I continue querulously, shoving a couple of bags into her hands. “Here. You may as well make yourself useful.”

“Still tetchy I see,” Backup murmurs, taking the bags and starting to walk towards the front door. “Still look like shit too,” she comments over her shoulder, luckily disappearing through the door before I decided throwing a tin of pears at her head would have been a really good idea.

Am I truly just self-absorbed or is the world really out to get me? I try, not that I particularly wanted to mind you, to do the right thing and what do I get for my efforts? Yet more shit. Given what I woke up to this morning all I wanted when I got home was to have a shower and sleep. Nowhere in the grand scheme of things did I want to discover that Sam had invited himself to stay with me and that there wasn’t a fucking thing I could do about it. Subsequently the hours I wanted to spend sleeping have been spent half heartedly cleaning my apartment and fighting my way through hordes of pensioners at Tescos.

Having become accustomed to life during daylight hours being wasted away on my sofa I’m feeling quite exhausted from my three hours of activity and definitely not up to dealing with Backup. Sam I can -- begrudgingly though it may be -- handle, if for no other reason than he’s sick and I’m confident he can’t chase me if I decide to simply take off. Backup on the other hand I know would chase me. And then I’d get the disappointed look along with the lecture. And then I’d have to swear at her and act all petulant and God knows none of it would achieve a damn thing. Why everyone can’t leave me the fuck alone escapes me. The damage I’m doing to my life aside, I’m not bloody well hurting anyone. Sam is better off without me, CI5 don’t need me, and if they all stopped worrying about me for a minute they’d all be able to see this for themselves.

But no. That would be too easy. Backup seems to see me as some sort of social experiment or stray sheep that has to be herded back to the path of redemption and Sam…

Sam says he loves me. That makes him even more deluded than Backup.

I know now that staying in London was my biggest mistake. If I’d been capable of thinking about anything other than where my next numbing sexual encounter was coming from I would have packed my bags and disappeared. It would have been the best thing I could have done. Backup could have concentrated her none too considerable attention on Sam and Sam would have been able to accept that it was over and that he’d have to start putting his life back together without me. This way is just dragging everything out. Backup still thinks she can assist someway in making me see the light and Sam thinks I’m capable of returning to the person he knew. I’d love to think there’s a chance that they could be right, that I haven’t fallen so far that I can’t reach the hands stretching out for me, but I just don’t know. I somehow doubt it to be honest. My mind’s pretty much made up - everyone’s better off without me and they should all just cut their losses and forget me.

Thing is I just have to convince them of this cold hard fact of life.

Sighing under my breath, I close the trunk with my elbow and slowly make my way inside, weighed down by bulging plastic bags. Food not exactly having been high on my agenda just recently, I’ve had to buy enough to pretty much restock both the fridge and the cupboards. Perhaps it’s just because Tescos was far brighter than all the clubs I’ve been frequenting recently, but the supermarket honestly struck me as being hell on earth. Failing that I wasn’t coping very well with the shock of being out in daylight hours. Either way I couldn’t get out of there quick enough and can only hope that what I was throwing randomly into my trolley is what I more or less wanted. Given the amount of geriatrics that were shuffling around the place I can only assume that a local nursing home was having an outing or that it’s pension day. Actually, come to think of it I don’t even know what day of the week it is. I know it’s a weekday, thanks to the amount of buses on the road, but other than wouldn’t really have a clue. I can’t even remember when it was that I last watched the news or read a paper and am completely ignorant in respect to what’s going on in the world at this exact point in time. Oddly enough this concerns me and I realise yet again that something’s got to give, that I’ve got to give up the clubbing and fucking around and start living during the day again.

Feeling like a pack horse, I stagger up the stairs and head straight into the kitchen. Backup hasn’t screeched anything to the contrary yet so I take it that Sam’s okay and decide that I may as well unpack the groceries before poking my head into the bedroom and deflecting what’s no doubt likely going to be round two in the game of ‘let’s cure Chris’ that I seem to be the only unwilling participant in.

I’m three-quarters the way through putting things away and am wondering what the hell possessed me to buy so much chocolate when Backup materialises in the doorway. She’s smiling happily which only succeeds in putting me immediately on edge.

“Sam seems settled,” she states, clearly pleased. “He said to thank you for the note and the book by the way.”

I shrug dismissively. “He’d left the book here,” I mutter, referring to the Churchill biography that I’d retrieved from one of the boxes near the front door and placed on the bedside table for him to read if he woke up before I got back, “and I didn’t want him to worry about where I’d got to. He needs to concentrate on getting better, not worrying about me.” Not mind you that it was a charming note by any stretch of the imagination - “Gone shopping. Haven’t run away. Will return’. No ‘hope you’re feeling better’ or ‘love & kisses’ or anything that could be construed as caring in any way, shape or form.

“It was still kind of you,” Backup replies, helping herself to a Kit-Kat and unwrapping it. “Lots of chocolate I see,” she comments, snapping off a finger and offering it to me. “Comfort food.”

“Your point being?” I scowl, snatching the chocolate finger and managing to shove it all into my mouth in one go.

“No point,” Backup responds, shrugging as she far more delicately nibbles on her piece of Kit-Kat, “just a comment, that’s all.”

“Are you sure?” I murmur suspiciously once I’ve swallowed the chocolate and can open my mouth again without displaying a mass of half chewed Kit-Kat. “You’re not trying to analyse me or read something that isn’t there into it?”

“Nope. Just a comment. Don’t take everything so seriously, Chris,” she mutters, shooting me an annoyed look. “You may not want to know this, but we both care about you very much and everyone at CI5 wants you back. We only want to help.”

“And if I don’t want your help?” I query bluntly. “What if I wish that you’d take Sam with you and that you’d all leave me alone to fuck up my life as I see fit, huh? Don’t forget that I haven’t asked for any of this assistance.”

“If you meant all of that then I’d say that you’re being incredibly stupid and that you need to wake up and smell the coffee,” Backup replies firmly, her eyes narrowing. “You don’t need to be told that what happened was bad. But nor should you need to be told that it’s in the past and that you have to move on. You’re hurting more than yourself by behaving this way, Chris. I’m not saying you don’t have, in your mind at least, your reasons but I am saying that you have to work through them. If you think I enjoy coming around here so you can scowl at me or leaving messages for you that I know you’ll never reply to then you’re sadly mistaken. I *do* have better things to do with my time, but until I know for certain that you’re beyond all hope I’m not going to give up. And even if I did wash my hands of you, Sam isn’t going to. You’ll have to be in the ground before Sam gives up on you, Chris, and even then he’d try everything he could to revive you. I may not know why, you may not know why either or even want it, but he loves you and you’re just going to have to accept that he’s not going to abandon you. In other words, deal with it and deal with it quickly, for everyone’s sake.”

Backup’s lecture finally over, I sigh heavily and go back to putting groceries away. “I have been trying to deal with it,” I murmur quietly, not looking at Backup. “In my own way I’ve been trying very hard.”

“Well now you’re just going to have to try harder,” Backup retorts, walking up behind me and placing her hand on my shoulder. “Chin up, Chris, you’ll get there. You wouldn’t have made it this far if you weren’t such a fighter. I apologise if I’ve been bugging the crap out of you but I’m only doing it because I’m concerned. As corny as this sounds, you’re both like brothers to me and I hate to see you both hurting like this. The past week or however long it’s been has been hellish.”

“I’m sorry,” I whisper, the comforting weight of her hand on my shoulder threatening to bring down my defences. “I’m sorry for everything. I… I’m not promising a happy ending, the one I know you so desperately want, but I can promise you that I’ll do everything I can to look after Sam and that I’ll try harder to put things into perspective. That’s… Well, that’s the best I can offer at the moment.”

“And that’s all I wanted to hear from you,” Backup replies, sounding relieved as she leans over my shoulder and plants a very soft and very fleeting kiss on my cheek. “Look, I’m due back at the office and had better be on my way. I just wanted to make sure that Sam was settled and that you hadn’t packed your bags and left him to it. You’ll get there. You may not end up where I want you to but I know you’ll get somewhere and that that place will be a lot better than where you currently are. You’ve just got to work at it.”

“Mmm… I’m working, I’m working!” I mutter blithely, turning around and surprising both myself and Backup by smiling. “Thanks, Backup. I -- and this time I mean it -- appreciate your concern.”

Not to mention your blind faith. The blind faith that I doubt I can live up to.

~*~

Immutable fact of life - whatever way you look at it, Countdown sucks. It really, *really* sucks. What’s-his-face the cheery rotund man who presents it has to be on Ecstasy. He just has to be. Not only would it go some way in explaining his deplorable taste in ties and jackets but it would also explain how he can present episode after episode of the dross without flipping out and going postal. And the less said about the competitors the better. Take the carry over champion, he looks like a forty year old virgin who’s still dressed by his mother and who can identify, to the series, year and first screening date, episodes of Doctor Who by a three second sound bite. If I was him I wouldn’t be showing my face on national television. His challenger, a high school head master from York who has the comb over from hell, isn’t much better and I don’t even want to think about how much shit the students are going to heap on him tomorrow.

All that said, I’m transfixed, I can’t turn it off. If I knew what I was doing watching it then I’d also hold the key to all the universe’s secrets. In other words I have no fucking idea why I’m sitting here staring at it blankly, my dislike for the show growing by the second. It escapes me not only how people can watch it for pleasure but also how it’s managed to survive so long. It’s drab, boring, completely uninteresting… and I can’t turn it off. Although I have satellite I can’t even bring myself to change the station and continue sitting here like some sort of giant stunned mullet.

Oh well, it’s noise and flickering images and it beats wasting more time on ruing the sad state of affairs that is my life. My apartment is cleaner than it has been for a while, my kitchen is overflowing with food, and my partner is ensconced in my bed. Needless to say if someone had told me that this was going to be my life by four o’clock this afternoon when I woke up this morning I would have laughed in their face. Hysterically. I would have laughed hysterically. And then most likely told them to fuck off for good measure. I’ve had close to six hours to come to terms with Sam’s unwanted presence in my apartment but I’m still no closer to viewing it as a good thing. Okay. So it made me actually do things today as opposed to wiling away the hours on the sofa, but that’s beside the point.

Sam’s here. And he won’t go away. And I have to deal with him. And it’s hard. Really fucking hard. He’s hurting and I’m hurting and I really don’t want the twain to meet.

Alone I could go about my numbing business but now I’ve got a baby-sitter who wants to save me from myself. A Goddamn baby-sitter that I want to simultaneously protect without adding to his hurt and confusion. It was easier when he was in the hospital. I thought while he was safely trapped there that I had everything under a peculiar version of control. Ha. I know now that I was merely kidding myself. For all my inward thinking and perceived notions of control I was really in both hiding and denial. Now though reality and the future is staring me in the face and I have no idea what to do.

I’m still convinced that, for his own best interests, I have to ensure that I push Sam away, but other than that I just don’t know. Do I then risk skulking back to CI5 and taking a desk job or do I pack up once again and move in hopes of finding pastures greener? And if I decide to move, where do I go, what do I do? There’s one question that I won’t even ask myself though, and that’s what, everything else aside, I really want. What I want, what I would give anything to happen, can’t enter into the equation. It just can’t. It would only be selfish of me and there’s more at stake than my happiness. A lot more.

Hearing sounds of movement in the bedroom, I mentally cross my fingers that Sam’s simply going to the bathroom before retreating straight back to bed and actually physically flinch when I see him walking slowly through the bedroom door. Damn. I should have known him staying put and quiet in bed was too good to last. Still, the fact that he’s stayed there this long proves how weak and unwell he is. The bullets while missing any major arteries or organs still caused considerable blood loss and did a fair amount of soft tissue damage, hence the lingering weakness and the long, long hours of physio ahead of him when he’s up to it.

Spotting me sitting on the sofa, Sam, like a fucking homing pigeon, immediately shuffles his way over and takes seat next to me. I don’t like how pale and drawn he looks but don’t ask how he’s feeling, choosing instead to stand up and wander towards the kitchen.

“This is going to get old very quickly,” Sam sighs dully, causing me to come to a reluctant stop in order to turn around and face him. “If you leave the room everytime I enter it then life’s going to be non-stop fun and games.”

“I actually got up so I could make you a cup of tea and get you a blanket,” I reply blandly, unable to meet his gaze. “If you’re going to sit your battered hide out here then I insist that you keep warm and, well, knowing you English I thought you might like a cup of tea. Excuse me for not issuing a memorandum in respect to my movements. If you give me warning next time I’ll see what I can do.” I can’t help it. When I feel put on the spot I lapse into sarcasm. It’s never been my most endearing treat and has been known to cause more problems than it’s worth.

“Thanks… I’d love a cup of tea,” Sam murmurs, ignoring my pointless sarcasm and relaxing on the sofa. “I… I’m not here so you can wait on me though, Chris. You don’t have to. I’m injured, not crippled.”

“And you’re here now, making you my responsibility.” I shrug, turning back around and continuing into the kitchen. “If you don’t like the level of hospitality or the company then please, feel free to leave. I won’t stop you.”

“I’m not going anywhere,” Sam replies firmly, “so you can stop wasting time and breath on that line of thought right now. Give it up, Chris. I’m here and here, whether you like it or lump it, is where I’m staying.”

“It’s your funeral,” I retort, turning on the kettle and dropping a teabag into a clean mug before stalking past Sam and grabbing a blanket from the bedroom. If I’d known I was only going to have to bring it back to the sofa I never would have bothered putting it away in the first place. “Here,” I grunt, throwing the blanket at Sam, “Wrap this around you or get back into bed. I’m not having you catch a cold on top of everything else.”

“Anyone ever tell you that with a bedside manner like that you’d make a great nurse?” Sam queries facetiously, dutifully draping the blanket around his knees. “Honestly though, with an attitude like that you’d be just perfect.”

“If I wanted humour I’d be watching the Cartoon Network,” I mutter, favouring Sam with a scowl before returning to the kitchen. The kettle just having boiled, I finish making the tea and carry it out to Sam. “If you want a biscuit or something to eat, tell me now before I sit down again,” I murmur, handing him the mug and pretending not to notice how his arm seems to shake as he takes it from me.

“I’m not really hungry,” Sam replies, “thanks for the offer though, and for the tea. It… It was nice of you.”

“Whatever,” I sigh, sinking gently back down onto the sofa and settling myself as far away from Sam as I can possibly get. While I don’t particularly want to remain sitting with him a small part of me refuses to be chased out of my own living room and I decide to stay put. I was, after all, here first.

“Um… Chris… Why are you watching Countdown?” Sam asks hesitantly, his expression puzzled. “I thought you hated English game shows.”

“You mean their *excuses* for game shows,” I reply drily. “I do. They’re without exception crap, and this is about the worst of the lot.”

“Then… ah… Forgive me for asking, but why are you watching it?” Sam murmurs, glancing at me.

“Because I can,” I respond bluntly, staring at the television. “Because as crap as Countdown is it’s still better than concentrating on nothing but the void in my head. For that alone it’s unmissable viewing these days.”

“Chris…”

Here we go.

“I don’t want to talk about it,” I interrupt flatly. “Not now. As I said this morning, when you’re better we’ll talk. Just not now.”

“But I can’t help you if you won’t talk to me,” Sam murmurs gently. “Come on Chris. Your behaviour is worrying me and I want to be able to help you.”

“I’m peachy,” I reply dismissively, “Absolutely peachy. Besides, it’s not me you need to be concentrating on, it’s you. You’re the one recovering from two gun shot wounds, not me.”

“I was only shot. What happened to you though…”

“No! God, Sam!” I exclaim, shaking my head in agitation. “Am I speaking in tongues here or something? I don’t want to fucking talk about it. Okay? Hell, there’s nothing *to* talk about. It’s in the past and I don’t want to have think about it. I’m fine. Honestly. You don’t have to worry about me.”

“But I love you, and worry comes part and parcel with love,” Sam replies quietly. “You’re… You’re not yourself and it concerns me. You never came to see me in the hospital, you’re suspended, you’ve clearly been fucking around and… For God’s sake, Chris! I just want you to talk to me. Is that too much to ask, huh?”

Obviously I’m speaking Latin again. I have to be.

“Do you mind, Sam,” I sigh, gesturing at the television, “I’m actually trying to watch this.”

“Fine,” Sam retorts, a tremor of anger entering his voice. “Have it your way, Chris. I’ll tell you this though. You can fight and hide all you like, I’m not giving up. You’re stuck with me whether you like it or not.”

“So I’ve gathered,” I state resignedly, sneaking a glance at Sam out of the corner of my eye. He looks miserable and to my distinct horror I realise I want to hug him.

Not that I do though. Countdown’s on and God forbid I miss a precious second of that in order to sort out my fucked up life.

~*~

Proving that I’m nothing if not adaptable, I’m becoming use to having Sam around. I might even be -- although it would take the threat of hot pokers to make me admit it -- thankful for his presence. While I’m still no closer to knowing what it is I want to do I feel a lot calmer than I did earlier in the week and no longer spend quite so many hours analysing myself. I’m not happy, and I still feel incredibly useless, but I’m… I’m better.

It’s been three days since Sam forced his way back into my life and we’ve settled, without too many hitches along the way, into an almost comfortable routine. I fuss over Sam like a mother hen and he tries to get me to talk to him. You’d think by now he’d have accepted that trying to get me to have a deep and meaningful conversation would be the equivalent of banging your head repeatedly against a brick wall in the masochistic stakes but no, nothing stops him for niggling away. It’s another thing I’ve become use to though. He tries to talk about what’s wrong with me and I deflect his questions any way that I can. I’ve ignored him, I’ve stated politely that I don’t want to talk about it, I’ve got up and walked away, and I’ve even resorted to the good old fallback of telling him to shut the fuck up. Once I even made the stop gesture with my hand but that really didn’t go down well. In fact I was informed in no uncertain terms that if I told him to speak to the hand he was going to sit on me. To my inane delight his response made me laugh and for a split second it honestly felt as though nothing had ever happened.

Needless to say the moment didn’t last long.

If Sam’s taking my constant refusal to talk seriously to him to heart then he’s hiding it remarkably well. I can tell him to fuck off in the morning and he’ll simply bide his time until the afternoon or evening before trying again. He’s cunning though, consistently coming up with new ways to approach the subject. The lead in question in the morning might be in regards to the relationship he seems to think we still have while the one in the evening might be in respect to what I think I’m going to do if I turn my back on CI5. These questions I can brush off with relative ease. It’s the ones about what happened in the warehouse though that I really hate. Sam might want to talk about it desperately but I don’t. I think about it all but constantly, that’s enough.

When Sam’s taking time out from wanting to have a heart to heart with me we’re thankfully getting on remarkably well. If he can keep the topic away from me we even manage to chat. Not about anything important, granted, but we’re nonetheless capable of discussing things of no possible consequence. Although I hadn’t wanted to I find myself -- willingly -- spending more and more time in his company. At first I thought I’d go out of my way to steer clear of him but that idea didn’t make it past his first day here. Denial still being my special friend, I tried telling myself that the only reason I started to lurk around him was to ensure that he was taking it easy and not pushing himself too hard. While that’s part of it, the main reason I sit in the living room with Sam or walk with him around the cemetery is because… Well, it’s because I want to. If we’re having one of our pointless conversations about what’s on television or whatever it is we feel compelled to ramble on about then he’s prone to smiling at me.

And I like that.

A lot.

He smiles at me and I love him and my willpower falters and I want to hug him and cry and beg for his forgiveness and understanding.

Controlling this desire is getting increasingly harder. I know by lingering with Sam I’m merely extending my pain but can’t bring myself to stop. My mate Denial tells me that he’ll be gone soon enough and that if I want to make the most of his company while I still have it then, Goddamn it, I have every right too.

So I am.

Just because I won’t talk about the things he wants me to doesn’t mean I have to shut him entirely out. Besides, in my own way I’m looking after him. He’s still frail and he needs someone to help him. And that person just happens to be me. When he’s better we’ll talk. Not only have I promised it but it’s not as though there’s really any other choice. Once he’s recovered Sam will return to CI5 and I’ll… I’ll toss a coin until I work out what it is I’m going to do with myself. Until then we’ll just coast along, each of us in our own way deluding ourselves that there’s still hope.

Having Sam to contend with keeps me occupied. If I’m not driving him to physio or back to the hospital for check ups I’m standing in the kitchen scratching my head in respect to working out just what in hell I’m going to feed the pair of us or -- and this is unique, it really is -- making the bed or washing clothes. Sam can walk around with difficulty, and his strength is returning by the day, but any other form of movement still causes twinges of discomfort, hence the reasons behind my sudden tidy streak. It won’t last, but while Sam’s here I can make the effort for his benefit. God forbid he has to sleep in an unmade bed for example. I’ve been on the receiving end of that particular lecture more times than I care to remember. If my memory serves me correctly the only way to get him into a mussed up bed was with the promise of sex…

But let’s not go there.

In my list of things I don’t want to think about, deal with, or even contemplate, sex is the number one position holder. Colton, the sordid clubs, the threesome with the couple that I’m still no closer to remembering anything about, I just don’t want to know anything about any of it. I haven’t been to a club since Sam came out of hospital and can’t say that I’m missing it. While it all made perfect sense at the time the mere thought of my exploits now is enough to make me cringe. Knowing that Sam knows, and I can’t help but suspect this was instinctive, I’d been fucking around makes me feel even smaller. How he come to know me so well escapes me. It wouldn’t surprise me in the slightest to learn that he already knows what it is that I’m feeling and is simply waiting to hear it from me.

Still, things could be a lot worse. Albeit in an unfocussed sort of way, I’m getting a lot more out of my days now. I’ve even started jogging around the hospital block while I wait for Sam to finish his physio. I don’t quite know why I jog, or indeed why I want to get my fitness levels back up, but it feels good to be doing something physical. Sam wisely keeps his opinions in respect to this to himself. I know he thinks it’s because I want to grovel to Malone and be accepted back into the CI5 fold without him having to tell me. Maybe it even it is, I just don’t know.

“Hey Chris, stop skulking in the kitchen and join us,” Spencer calls from the living room, the sound of his voice saving me momentarily from the dilemma of whether Sam will mind having ‘something’ and fries again for tea. “Come on,” he adds, “we want your opinion on something.”

“Hold your horses,” I reply, thankful for the diversion and closing the freezer door. Backup and Spencer arrived over an hour ago and they’ve been sitting in the living room discussing an old assignment with Sam ever since. Not feeling as though there’d possibly be anything I could add to the discussion, I’ve avoided the living room and left them to it. “I’m coming,” I continue, walking out of the kitchen “although God knows what you’d want my opinion on.”

“Of course we want your opinion,” Spencer replies, shooting me a look of surprise. “It’s the Reynolds’ case, remember? The one that took you and Sam halfway through Texas and back again.”

“How could I forget,” I mutter, squeezing in next to Backup on the sofa. “I thought that redneck in that roadside diner was going to tear me from limb to limb for having the nerve to ask his missus if the apple pie was fresh. Remember that, Sam? Man was he a tetchy son-of-a-bitch.”

“I remember,” Sam smiles. “Just as I remember you let the air out of his truck tyres by way of pay back. If he’d caught you he would have killed you.”

“Don’t I know it,” I retort, choking back a laugh. “It’s alright for you. You weren’t the one he grabbed and breathed all over. Urgh… Rotten breath had nothing on it. So… Er… Yeah, I remember it well. What about the Reynolds’ case? Don’t tell me the bastard’s wriggled out of the charges and is out causing havoc again?”

“That’s it exactly,” Backup replies, gesturing to the laptop set up on the coffee table. “The dumb ass Feds fucked the evidence and it’s up to us once again to pull him in. We’ve been talking to Sam about how best to attempt it, but now we want to hear your take on things.”

I know what they’re trying to do, that all they’re really wanting to do is make me feel useful and a valued member of team again, but I suddenly don’t care. If they think enough of me to waste their time trying to make me feel better about myself then the least I can do is offer them some hope. Leaning forward, I drag the laptop towards me and quickly read over the information on the screen.

Quickly spotting what may very well be the best way to ensnare Reynolds, I don’t hesitate in sharing my theory with the others. As I talk I realise something. It doesn’t matter if they’d already come up with my plan or whether they don’t think it will work, what matters is that I feel good about what I’m doing.

Not just better, but good.

It’s almost enough to give me hope that things might just work out.

~*~

I have to know. It’s something I’ve thought about in the past, but now I won’t be able to leave it well enough alone until I know. He has to be able to answer me. If he can’t then everything I think I know will be proven to be nothing but a myth. I’m not sure I’ll be able to *believe* his response, but I’ve got to hear it. It’s reached the point where I can no longer simply ignore the question and know, for the sake of clarification -- be it entirely in the past tense or not -- that I have to know his answer.

And I have to know now.

It’s all that blasted Dr Jenkins’ fault. If he hadn’t seen fit to casually inform me that Sam credits me with his recovery and that there must be something special about me then I wouldn’t be so hot under the collar about the issue. Just because my partner, being the good boy that he is, was being dutiful and playing nice for Jenkins didn’t mean he had the right to have a casual dig at me when I arrived to pick Sam up. He could have kept his big mouth shut, but oh-no, he just had to smile broadly and talk to me as though I was there simply because I wanted to see him. Git. I could blame Sam, for leaving physio early and making me look for him in the psychiatry wing, but I’m far more comfortable blaming Jenkins. He didn’t have to talk to me. End of fucking story.

As with so many things though, for whatever reason, the damage is done. Sam told the idiot shrink that there’s something special about me and I want to know why. I can’t shoot down what I don’t know and it unnerves me to think that Sam thinks this way about me. Special? Pah.

Leaning against the doorframe, I fold my arms across my chest and wait impatiently for Sam to get out of the bathroom. The car not striking me as a good place to talk, I maintained a sullen silence during the drive home but am now itching to get to it. Wanting Sam in a reasonably good mood -- which he usually isn’t in after a session with the physio Nazi -- I decided that letting him have a shower and freshen up first would be the only sensible thing to do but am now beginning to wish I’d jumped him the minute we walked in the door. I just want to know what he sees in me and why can’t I see it for myself.

The bathroom door finally opening, I push myself away from the doorframe and take a step into the room. Alerted to my presence, Sam stops drying his hair and glances at me warily. “Chris…” he murmurs, clearly surprised to see me. “I… I didn’t expect you there. Do you want your bedroom back? I’m more than happy with the spare room if…”

“Why?” I ask plainly, cutting him off and sinking down on the edge of the mattress. I feel as though I’m teetering on a cliff edge and that I have no control in respect to which way I might fall.

“Why what?” Sam replies, returning to the bathroom in order to hang up his towel. “Why do I think you might want your bedroom back?” he continues, walking back into the room and shooting me a confused look. “Why was I talking to Jenkins? Why are you doing your best to ignore that people are concerned about you? Why does Malone favour pinstripes? Come on, Chris, I need a little more here than just a plaintive why.”

“You say you love me,” I whisper, looking down at the floor and feeling myself blushing, “and I want to know why… Why do you love me?”

“Why?” Sam repeats, sounding slightly taken aback by the question. “You want to know why I love you?”

I nod. “Yeah… I do. Assuming you even have an answer,” I reply dully, unable to lift my gaze from the suddenly fascinating carpet. At least he’s not laughing, which is something. Or telling me that I’m only being stupid.

“Of course I have an answer,” Sam responds softly, crouching down in front of me and placing his hands gently on my knees. It’s the first time we’ve touched since… since the warehouse… and I shiver, wanting to distance myself but lacking the strength to move.

“Then tell me, please,” I murmur, slowly raising my eyes and directing my response to Sam’s waist. “You don’t strike me as the sort of person who’d allow himself to be a doormat yet you let me walk all over you. I… I don’t understand why.”

“You think you walk all over me?” Sam queries, squeezing his hands around my knees as he balances on the floor. “What makes you think that? I’ve never once thought of our relationship in that way. I always thought we were equals.”

“Not equals. Never equals,” I mumble miserably, shaking my head. “But that’s not what I want to talk about. Please, Sam… If you can, just answer the question.”

“Okay,” Sam agrees with a sigh. “Seeing as this is the first conversation you’ve instigated I’m happy to play along and follow your lead. I love you for a number of reasons, Chris, and hoped you already knew that.”

“I knew you loved me,” I murmur, slipping unconsciously into the past tense. “I… I never doubted that, but nor did I ever know why. I look at myself and I have no idea what you see in me. I’m a basket case with volumes of psychiatrist compiled case notes, I’m a menace to those who I love and who love me and… God! Let’s face it, I’m a fucking mess. Yet for some reason you stay with me when you could easily do better. I don’t understand and… and I want to.”

“You’re not a basket case, a menace, or a fucking mess,” Sam replies firmly, “and I don’t want to hear you say any of those things again. Your life mightn’t have been all sunshine and picnics but whose is, huh? You’ve suffered like the rest of us but you’re still here and you’re still incredibly, *incredibly* special to me.”

“Why?” I whisper, finally raising the courage to lift my head and look Sam in the eye. “I want to know *why* you loved me and put up with all the hoops I made you jump through in the beginning. Hell, Sam, I don’t even know what made you want me in the first place.”

“I wanted you because I’d never meant anyone with your strength of character before,” Sam states quietly, his gaze holding mine, his eyes warm and full of compassion. “You don’t know this but I knew about the wedding even before we were partnered and only pretended to be surprised when you finally told me about it. I don’t say this to shock you or offend you, I say it because I want you to know that I *chose* you to be my partner. I read your file and knew instinctively that I’d be proud to work with someone with your obvious will to survive and move on. To put it another way, I originally wanted you for your willpower, skills and training, loving you come after.”

“Oh,” I murmur, Sam’s response surprising me. Not that he knew about the wedding before I told him but that he himself chose to be partnered with me. I’d always assumed Malone in all his wisdom had partnered us and had never once thought that Sam would have had a hand in it. “But I was so nasty to you during the first six months,” I add dully. “I bet you spent a lot of time regretting your choice of partner.”

“Only a little,” Sam confesses, shrugging, “but I put it down to the fact that you were still hurting and possibly having second thoughts about your move to London and CI5. Besides, when you weren’t trying to bite my head off you were more or less pleasant to be around and I could see that you knew the job inside out and that I could trust you with my life.”

“So when did you start to see something in me other than well trained work colleague?” I prompt, hanging off Sam’s every word. “We didn’t even really become friends until I knew you were interested in me.”

“In all honesty I don’t know,” Sam replies after a brief moment of contemplation. “Somewhere along the line I just must have come to the conclusion that what I saw in you wasn’t solely professional. It wouldn’t be a lie to say I was always attracted to you, but that’s probably the least of what captured my interest. I admired you, I looked forward to being with you and when something I’d said succeeded in making you smile I felt, ludicrous as this will no doubt sound, as though I was walking on air. Everyone else I knew or met seemed to pale in comparison to you. When you started your concentrated sleeping around it was like being repeatedly gut-punched. I knew then, and no one was more surprised by this than me let me tell you, that it had to be love.”

“You know I was trying to deflect you, don’t you?” I query, still embarrassed by that particular chapter of my life story. “I could see that you were interested and wanted to put you off for your own good.”

“I knew that, yeah,” Sam responds, smiling wryly. “I also knew that one thing I had over you was patience and that I could wait. That night in that motel room when you came on to me, do you have any idea how hard an offer that was to refuse? Christ. I went back to room wondering whether I’d just made the worst mistake of my life and blown my only chance.”

“It never would have worked out like it did if we’d… if we’d done it that night,” I murmur. “It would have just been a one night stand that would have ruined everything.” Which given where we are now probably would have been a good thing.

“I know,” Sam replies with a quick nod. “Well, it’s what I hoped anyway. Willing to do anything to convince myself that I was in with a chance, I convinced myself that knowing you were at least aware of my interest had to be a good thing and that in time you’d come around to my way of thinking. For what it’s worth your sleeping around never offended me. It hurt, yeah, but I never thought any less of you. You thought you were in damage control, I could see that. I could even, to an extent, understand it. Having lost so much you were obviously wary of getting involved with someone and my interest in you was both unwanted and somewhat disturbing. As I’ve already mentioned though, patience is one of my strong points and I was willing to wait for you for however long it took…”

Trailing off, Sam squeezes my knees again and smiles hopefully. “As for the specifics of why I love you? Think about it, is love dictated by logic or something that can be dissected and analysed? Why did you love Teresa? Why did our parents love each other?” he continues patiently. “I love you for many reasons, a lot of which would mean nothing to anyone but me. When you smile I feel happy, when you’re hurting like this I feel next to completely useless, to this day my mood lifts when I see you and I know that you’re the person I want grow old with. You’re beautiful, strong, compassionate and very special to me. You’re not perfect, but who is? I don’t view you through rose tinted glasses and know you have your faults. You are after all only human, one who’s already gone through too much in his life and one who I would do anything to make happy.”

“But…” I start to protest weakly, the heartfelt tone of Sam’s voice making me almost believe him unconditionally.

“No buts,” Sam interrupts softly, “if you start ‘butting’ then this conversation is going to go off in tangents that I’m fairly confident you don’t want it to. I still want to talk to you about everything that’s going on in that confused head of yours, but I don’t think that’s what you want now. You asked me why I love you and, while I admit it’s superficial and brief, I’ve told you. If you want I could go on. I could tell you how there are still times that I think you’re out of my league and that I sometimes fear you’ll realise that we come from two decidedly different backgrounds and that I’m not good enough for you. I could tell you that I still consider myself incredibly privileged to have you and that waking up in the middle of the night to the feel of your body next to mine makes me feel like the luckiest man on earth. And, before you ask, yes, I will fight for you. I’ll put up with your moods and your insecurities until I’m one hundred percent convinced that there’s no hope for us. Until then you’re just going to have to deal with the fact that you’re stuck with me.”

I want to say that he’s still making a mistake, especially now, and that I’m not worthy of his love.

I want to tell him that I love him and want to spend the rest of my life by his side.

But I say nothing, choosing instead to slip off the mattress and slumping limblessly into Sam’s waiting arms. He hugs me tightly, irregardless of the pain he must be feeling in his chest, as I only just control the urge to cry.

He loves me. He knows me and he still loves me.

Okay. I’ve got my answer. Now what?

~*~

It’s official. I’m sick of thinking. All I seem to do these days is think yet for all the hours I waste dissecting my sorry existence it doesn’t fucking get me anywhere. I think and I think and I’m still no closer to sorting myself out once and for all. It’s ludicrous. The inside of my own head is sending me barking mad. In fact my indecisiveness is getting so bad that I’m almost at the point of viewing simply flipping a coin as a good idea. Heads I win, tails I lose.

I think…

Fuck! There I go again. I think… Blah, blah, fucking blah.

In respect to this point, and possibly this point alone, screw thinking. I *know* what I want. I don’t think I know it and I don’t think I want it. No. I *know* I want it. It may very well be the world’s worst case of wishful thinking, but it’s what I want. Although I’ve only just admitted it to myself, it’s what I’ve always wanted. It just took Sam explaining why he loved me to make it clear, that’s all.

I want Sam and I want CI5.

Selfish, foolhardy, contradictory to just about every one of my fears and perhaps too late, it’s nonetheless what I want.

Hell. I want. Me, me, me. It’s almost as bad as ‘I think’.

It’s all Sam’s fault. If he didn’t have such bad taste in men we’d both be better off. There being law enforcement agencies of various descriptions the world over, I could leave CI5 and get another job much easier than I could walk away from Sam and find someone else as understanding and as caring as he is. Given what he told me earlier today I’d probably spend the rest of my life looking and I’d still come up empty handed. He thinks I’m strong though and he’s wrong. I’m not strong, not like he seems to think anyway. If I was I wouldn’t be taking so long to make up my mind. My history, coupled with what took place in the warehouse, dictates that I should just leave him. He wouldn’t be at risk of having his partner fail him again and nor would he have to deal with having a slut as a lover. It makes perfectly logical sense that, in order to protect him, I set him free.

But I can’t. I waste hours, *days* even, thinking that I can and that it’s for the best and that I’m doing the right thing, but I baulk at seeing it through. I’m the king of lame excuses. He’s injured. He actually needs me right now. I don’t want to upset his convalescence. A couple more days won’t hurt. I’ll do it once he’s better. If he keeps seeing me for the pathetic waste of space that I am I won’t have to do it at all as he’ll realise himself that he doesn’t want me...

Eventually though, when that line of thought has become passé, snippets of truth begin to creep into the excuses and my so-called strength and determination falters even further. I don’t want him to go. I like having him here with me. He keeps me grounded. If he left I’d just revert to the clubbing and anonymous sex, so, really, he’s doing me a favour. I love him and I’m so afraid of being without him that I’ll just keep putting it off until the genie in the magic lamp comes along and grants me three wishes.

It’s only taken me a week but I’ve finally realised the true reason behind my inability to tell Sam that he’s better off without me and that’s because I simply don’t want to do it. While I still want what’s best for him and am still of the opinion that that would be to be without me hanging around him the human equivalent of a target sign, I don’t want to be without him. It’s as simple and as selfish as that.

He makes me happy. And I believe him when he says he loves me. I’m a failure, I’m tainted by Colton and his actions, yet Sam still loves me. It mightn’t make sense but it’s fact. After everything that’s happened Sam still wants to be with me. It’s nothing short of incredible. I don’t -- can’t -- pretend to understand it but know beyond all doubt that I’m incredibly lucky.

What I want aside though, I’m still no closer to working out how to make it a reality. In this respect Sam is the least of my concerns. He’s made it pretty clear that he’ll wait for me until I’m ready to talk and I know he’ll be ready whenever I am. CI5 on the other hand is a different kettle of fish entirely. While I have no idea what I’m going to say to Sam, let alone when I’m going to raise the courage to get around to it, Malone I doubt will be willing to wait much longer for me to make up my mind. Nor will he take too kindly to me stammering and stuttering all over him as I try to convince him to lift my suspension and that I’m perfectly capable of returning to work. I’d almost convinced myself to call him in order to schedule a suitable time to grovel for absolution while I was jogging this morning but my little run in with Jenkins pushed it clean out of my mind.

Maybe tomorrow. Maybe I’ll call him tomorrow and make an appointment for Friday. That’d at least give me another two days to attempt to work out just what the fuck it is I’m going to say to him. I know that I’m going to have to talk about exactly what went on in the warehouse and that I’ll have to be assessed by whoever this week’s in-house psychiatrist is and that’s one of the many things holding me back from biting the bullet and making the call. It’ll be non-negotiable and having so far managed to avoid talking about it to anyone the mere thought of being placed under the spotlight, however non judgemental and understanding it’s meant to be, literally churns my stomach. In order to ensure my best chance at returning to active duty I’ll have to be completely honest and won’t be able to hold anything back for fear of appearing too transparent. The most worrying thing is that I’ll have to confess that I don’t think all the toothpaste and mouthwash in the world is ever going to rid my mouth of the taste of Colton… And I just don’t know whether I’ll be able to.

I have to talk to Sam. I have to make an appointment to speak to Malone. I have to stop despising myself. I have to put effort into living up to peoples expectations of me whether I think they’re misguided or not. I have to let Sam know how special he is to me and how I don’t even want to imagine what my life would be like if he wasn’t in it. I have to stop hiding and get on with life. I have to fight. I have to pull myself together and put the past behind me… Christ. My mental to do list these days honestly seems to be never ending.

Right now though I want to go and sit on the sofa with Sam and watch some stupid action movie on the television for no reason other than I can and that I know Sam’s waiting for me to join him.

And what’s more, now the microwave has finishing nuking the popcorn to my satisfaction, that’s exactly what I’m going to do. To some it might only seem like a small step forward but to me it’s a considerable one. I’m even going to sit next to Sam on the sofa and maybe, if I’m feeling game enough, I might just press close enough to him so I can feel the warmth of his body.

There’s a lot more to be done, and I can only pray that I’m up to the challenge, but for now I’m bordering on content.

~*~

New fact of life - it doesn’t pay me to think. If it did -- and I was having a good week -- then I’d possibly *just* be able to afford my own sodden cardboard box somewhere in a back alley in Camden.

Colton was right. I *am* stupid. It’s three o’clock in the morning and I’m on the verge of having some sort of paranoid panic attack all because I can’t sleep and have to see Malone in just over seven hours time. Everything was alright when I went to bed three hours ago but now it’s well and truly not. In a short space of time, without any external influences I might add, I’ve simply lost the plot. And for the want of a better explanation, this makes me stupid. Incredibly fucking stupid in fact.

It started with a nightmare. Nothing new or particularly inspired, just a stock-standard nightmare where people I loved died and I was left alone and screaming. I woke gasping for breath and sweating, but that’s nothing new either. I have nightmares regularly. It’s just one of those things. If I sleep alone or don’t take a sleeping pill I’m all but guaranteed to be assailed by one. They’re so common that they don’t really bother me anymore and I’m usually able to go straight back to sleep.

Not tonight however.

While the nightmare isn’t lingering over me all my fears and insecurities of the past fortnight are. Which given that I thought things were looking far better than they had been is just fucking ludicrous. To add insult to injury I’d actually gone to bed feeling incredibly positive about things too. I’d had a good night out with friends, Sam’s strength was returning in leaps and bounds, I’d finally bit the bullet and made an appointment to speak to Malone, and I felt loved. Things seemed positively rosy. Although I discovered I was out of sleeping pills as I made to get into bed I decided that I could survive one night without them and that I didn’t need to cadge one of Sam’s.

Now though… Shit. Now I’m seriously thinking of sneaking into Sam’s -- my -- bedroom and stealing a couple from the bottle on the bedside table just so I can knock myself out. It’s not so much that I’m anxious for the sleep as I am desperate to silence the turmoil in my head. For the first time I’m honestly beginning to question my own sanity. I’m sitting on the floor, my back against the wall and my knees pressed into my chest, one small step away from crying. My skin is covered in goosebumps and I’m shivering despite the warmth in the room.

And it’s all thanks to thinking myself into ever decreasing circles. I’m my own worst enemy. I have to be. No one else could fuck me around to this extent if they tried.

Right now, at this very exact point in time, I’m one hundred percent convinced that I’ve made a horrible mistake, that I’m doing the wrong thing, and that I’m going to fall spectacularly on my ass. CI5 don’t want me back. Sam will wake up the fact that I’m a loser with questionable sexual habits and leave me. And the main one, the one that started me on this downward spiral, there’s just no way I can talk to Malone about what happened. I just can’t. He might know the basics but he doesn’t know how inadequate it made me feel or how it’s still looming over me and colouring my entire life.

The more I think about it the more agitated I become. It’s almost as though I’ve been running ever since that day in the warehouse and have just, without a word of warning, slammed full force into a brick wall.

I thought I was in control. I thought things were moving forward. I thought everything was going to be okay.

Now I don’t. Now I can only think in terms of failure, shame, and worthlessness. I haven’t merely regressed, I’ve reached a new low. For no discernable reason I feel worse than I did that first night. All I can think about is Colton. I close my eyes and I see him leering at me. My mouth tastes sour, my tongue dry. If it didn’t involve moving from my crumpled position on the floor I’d throw up. My breath is so ragged and loud that I sound as though I’ve just run a marathon. I literally feel as though I’m going out of my mind.

It’s hard to believe that I’d actually been happy when I climbed into bed. To celebrate Sam’s doctors telling him that he was making an excellent recovery Backup had quickly arranged an impromptu get together at a local pub and everyone had had a great time. Backup’s boyfriend of the fortnight turned out to be a born mimic and he had us all in stitches with his impersonations of well known politicians and celebrities. The one of the great, in his mind anyway, George W was a scream. Convinced that my self doubt, thanks to Sam’s patience and faith in me, was under control, I was able to enjoy myself without constantly second guessing what the others were thinking of me. In all honesty it was just a ‘normal’ night out. A gloriously mundane, normal night spent with friends.

Christ I’m fucked. If only I’d gone and got a sleeping pill off Sam instead of thinking that everything was just peachy I wouldn’t be in this mess. If I’d taken a pill I would have slept until daylight and then I would have had breakfast with Sam who would have told me that I was doing the right thing going to see Malone and that he was sure everything would work out okay. But I didn’t think I needed a pill and look where it’s got me. See? It just doesn’t pay me to think.

Colton’s abuse of my body was only the beginning of the hell he’s inflicted on me. He violated me physically and the aftermath of his assault is still fucking me over. I hope, as he sits in his nice windowless cell that’s going to be his home for the rest of his sorry little existence, that he feels proud. In the space of something pitifully short like thirty minutes he’s done as much damage to me as Nichols, the psychopath with a grudge against the navy and a semi-automatic, did. Nichols might have been quicker, but he -- unlike Colton -- left a death toll in his wake.

I shouldn’t have dared to hope. It hasn’t got me anywhere and I’m now worse off than I was before. If I’d been as strong as Sam seems to think I am I wouldn’t have allowed him to trick me into believing things were going to be okay and would have stuck to my original plan of distancing myself from him. But I’m not strong. I’m not anything. I’m files of psychiatrist compiled notes and little else. If my life has served any purpose then I can’t see it.

Taking a deep shuddery breath, I rest my forehead against my knees and pray for oblivion. I just can’t take it anymore. The void in my head is swallowing me whole and I don’t know how to stop it. Perhaps if I’m still in this exact same position in the morning Sam might take pity on me and send me off to a nice psych ward somewhere. I think I’d like that. If nothing else the drugs they’d pump into me would keep me in a constant state of pleasant nothingness.

Goddamn it! I’m now so far gone that I’m actually viewing being sectioned as a good thing. Go me. Next I’ll be picking up the phone and dialling Jenkins’ number to tell him that he was right and I was wrong and I *do* need to talk about it.

Help…

Am I such a bad and horrible person that I can’t make it through this? Is Colton going to achieve what Nichols didn’t and defeat me? Am I honestly going to wave the white flag and let him? Am I going to throw everyone’s faith in me away so I can waste the rest of my life cowering in a corner and feeling sorry for myself?

At the moment I fear the answer’s a resounding yes. I can’t fight something this powerful and debilitating. It’s the availability of hope that’s the killer. With the wedding there was no hope. The people I loved were dead and no amount of hoping or praying was ever going to bring them back. Pulling myself together then meant starting afresh. No one expected anything of me. The navy were all prepared to pension me off and my friends treated me with kid gloves for fear of offending my delicate sensibilities and setting me off. In a way, albeit a peculiar one, it was easier to put things into perspective when I knew I had no one to disappoint. I could have screamed myself into my very own padded cell and no one would have blinked an eyelid.

This time I have people, kind misguided people that they are, counting on me to wake up and smell the coffee. Backup’s made it clear that she expects me back at CI5. Even Spencer seems to be looking forward to my return. Then there’s -- most important of all -- Sam, who I know is fully expecting things to return to pretty much exactly as they were.

It should help, and until the nightmare woke me up it did.

I want…

Fuck.

What I don’t want is to sense Sam materialising in my doorway. What’s he doing here? He should be asleep and blissfully ignorant to my breakdown.

Hallelujah. I’ve done it this time.

“Oh God, Chris… What’s the matter?”

Nothing. Nothing’s the matter. I’m just fine. On top of the world in fact. Now please, go back to bed. You don’t have to worry about me.

I think it, but I don’t say it. Fuck no. I whimper instead, adding just that little bit more pathos to the pitiful picture I paint.

“Hey, Chris…” Sam murmurs gently, trying again and crouching down in front of me. “Come on, it’s going to be okay. Whatever it is that’s upsetting you we can work through. Trust me. You don’t have to go through this alone.”

“Noooo,” I moan, hugging my knees tightly against my chest in the vain hope it might assist in making me invisible. “Too late… Too late to be helped.”

“Shhh… That’s not true,” Sam replies soothingly. ‘Come on, Chris. Talk to me.”

I shake my head, my forehead still resting on my knees. “Go back to bed,” I plead. “I’m… I’ll be fine.”

“Bollocks you’re fine,” Sam retorts, a note of exasperation creeping into his voice. “I get up to get a glass a water and I find you crumpled on the floor. Sorry, but that doesn’t exactly strike me as being fine. I’m not going anywhere so you may well stop trying to hide and talk to me. You’re going to have to do it sometime and while now mightn’t be ideal it will do.”

I shake my head again. “Don’t want to talk,” I mumble miserably. “Can’t… Can’t talk.”

“Why can’t you talk?” Sam queries patiently as I sense him settling on the floor. “Of course you can talk. You may not want to, but you can still force yourself to do it…” Trailing off, he sighs heavily before adding, “Okay. Let’s start from the beginning then, maybe that will make things earlier. When we went to bed tonight you were in fine spirits, now you’re showing all the signs of having some sort of breakdown. Why? What happened? We’ve only been apart for just over three hours.”

He’s not going to go away. It doesn’t matter what I do to attempt to deflect him, he’ll sit on the hard uncomfortable floor all night if he has to. I could steadfastly remain silent, or I could crawl into the corner and start to keen and he’ll just crawl after me.

I may not deserve Sam but by God am I thankful for him.

“Had nightmare, now can’t get back to sleep,” I murmur dully, wearily lifting my head and peering at Sam through downcast eyes. If he’s had enough of my temperamental behaviour then I don’t see it in his expression. All I see is compassion and worry.

“So this is caused by a nightmare?” Sam prompts, smiling at me reassuringly. Although there’s no light on in the room we can still see each other clearly thanks to the glow of the full moon beaming in through the skylight. In any other situation the lighting would almost seem romantic.

“No,” I whisper dejectedly. “The nightmare only succeeded in waking me. The rest is down to me and me alone. I… I started to think about what I was going to say to Malone and I realised that there’s *nothing*, absolutely nothing that I can say to him. Merely *thinking* about… about the warehouse… makes my skin crawl. I just can’t put what happened into words and I know that’s what Malone will expect from me. And… And if I can’t do it what hope have I got of convincing him that I’m not the liability I think I am, huh? And… Sam… I just can’t do it!”

“Then talk about it with me first,” Sam replies softly, leaning forward and gently touching my arm. “I… I was there. I saw what happened and can only imagine what must going through your head.”

“No you can’t,” I mutter hoarsely, squirming away from Sam’s touch. “You can’t and you don’t want to. It was nothing I hadn’t done before yet…” I can’t even say it.

“Yet it was done against your will, you didn’t have control over what was happening,” Sam finishes for me quietly. “Colton… The bastard violated you. The way you’re reacting is only natural.”

“I’m *overreacting*,” I sigh despondently. “It’s not like he raped me or I’d never done those things before. What he… *they*… did was nothing spectacularly out of the ordinary. I… Goddamn it, Sam! I wasn’t even physically hurt! You were shot and… and… oh God… you could have died! You’ve got far more of a right to be upset than I have.”

“Nonsense,” Sam responds adamantly, his eyes flashing with emotion. “That’s utter nonsense. I was shot, yes, but I didn’t die and apart from chafing at the bit to get back to active I don’t even think about it. What I…”

“You were shot with my gun!” I interrupt agitatedly. “My incompetence and my gun. Christ. It’s my fault. If I was any sort of agent it never would have happened.”

“If you’re going to follow that line of through then I’m as much to blame as you are,” Sam replies matter-of-factly. “I was as convinced as you were that the warehouse was empty and I let my guard down. Colton was there all along. If he’d wanted to he could have killed us both even before we were aware that we weren’t alone. It probably amused the sick fucker to shoot me with your gun, nothing more. Both his gorillas were armed and they found a Glock on Colton along with your Smith & Wesson when they apprehended him. You can’t blame yourself, Chris. It isn’t fair on you. None of it’s your fault. I never thought it was and don’t want you to either. Besides… Ah… You kept me alive. If not for you I probably wouldn’t be sitting here having this conversation as I’d be pushing up daisies. It’s because you allowed yourself to play his perverted games that I survived.”

Lifting my head a little higher, I blink at Sam in amazement, barely believing what it is I’m hearing. Not only does he not blame me -- like I am -- for what happened but he was conscious enough to be fully aware of what was going on? Shit. I neither know what to say or what to even think. “I… I’d do it again if I had to,” I finally manage to reply, my voice breaking as I fight to keep back tears. “Colton… He meant it. If I didn’t do what he said he was going to let his gorillas kick you to death. It didn’t matter what he meant to do to me, I couldn’t let him hurt you any further. I… I would have done anything…”

“And now you perhaps wish you’d fought him more?” Sam suggests kindly. “Don’t think you have to hide anything from me. It’s in the past and the damage has already been done.”

“I don’t wish that at all,” I respond firmly, somewhat surprised that Sam would even suggest it. “I did what I had to do. It didn’t hurt and it got the desired result. But…” I can’t do this. I can’t put into words the shame and uncertainty that I’m feeling.

“But what happened lingers over you and you feel as though you’re tainted by it,” Sam murmurs gently, succinctly reducing all my confusion into a few brief words. “You try to convince yourself that you were in control and that you weren’t being raped but you nonetheless hate not only your body for betraying you but yourself as well. You feel ashamed and dirty, worthless even. You’re so distraught over what happened that you want the world to carry on without you. You feel as though you’ve let everyone down and that we’d all be better off without you. Sex holding the key to the whole sordid mess, you retreated into the open uncaring arms of anonymous sex because you thought it was all you were good for and that you were, to prove that you could, giving of your own volition. Now though even the thought of your actions disgusts you. You want things to revert to how they were but you’ve convinced yourself for a number of reasons that they never will be. And now, by the looks of it, it’s all finally got too much for you.”

“I…” Fuck me. Why can’t I speak that eloquently and concisely? “How do you know?” I whisper, letting go of my knees and sitting up just that little bit straighter

“I like to think I know you pretty well, Chris,” Sam replies, smiling sadly. “You’re one of the most emotional people I’ve ever met and I knew this would have thrown your entire world off its axis. I also know your history and have a good idea in respect to how your mind works. When it comes to yourself and your perceived views of how it’s detrimental for others to get close to you you’re prone to over analysing yourself. You think and you think yet you need help to reach your final decision. No one can help you though until you’re ready to accept their help. Be it mine, or Malone’s, or even a psychiatrist’s, it’s down to you and you alone to want it to work.”

In hindsight I probably should have talked to Sam sooner. I should have known if there was anyone who could help me see the light it would be him.

“I want it to work,” I whisper, looking Sam in the eye and slowly nodding. “I want it to work desperately. I want to feel worthwhile and that means keeping both you and CI5. I… I just don’t know where to start. I’ve been fighting to keep afloat for so long that I don’t know how to move on.”

“First I get you a sleeping pill and then we both go to bed, together,” Sam quickly responds, his smile broadening. “You then sleep until I wake you up with breakfast in bed. As we eat we’ll discuss whether you’re feeling up to speaking to Malone or whether you should postpone the appointment for another day. After that we’ll just take it as it comes. How does that sound?”

“It sounds perfect,” I reply, blinking away the tears I can still feel lingering in my eyes. Dragging myself into a kneeling position I then shuffle closer to Sam and sigh in heartfelt relief as we instinctively embrace.

What’s more, it does sound perfect too. It’s only the beginning, and I’m yet again at the very start of a long road, but I’m going to get there. This time, more than anything, I’m determined. I might be able to let myself down but I can’t let Sam down. He has faith in me and I’m going to prove him right.

I have to.

~*~

“If you don’t mind me saying so, mate, for someone so pale ‘n’ pasty you’re looking pretty chipper,” the cab driver comments cheerfully as I settle myself on the backseat.

“Um… Thanks… I think,” I reply, smiling. “After an exceptionally crap couple of weeks I’ve just got my job back and am actually starting to think that things are honestly improving.”

“Good luck to you, mate,” the cabbie responds, giving me the thumbs up sign before pulling out from the curb and heading the cab in the direction of home. “I hope everything works out like you want it to.”

“It’s going to,” I state firmly, relaxing on the seat and feeling all the tension I’d been carrying around in my body slipping away. “I won’t have it any other way.”

“That’s what I like to hear, mate,” the driver replies with a nod, “a bit of determination never killed anyone.”

“You’re exactly right,” I agree, looking out the window and watching the familiar sights of London fly past. Sam, his independence returning with his strength, drove me to headquarters but I insisted that I was happy to catch a cab home. While Sam was more than willing to pick me up I didn’t want to either put him out or cause him to over exert himself. Besides, I’m actually grateful for the time alone. The last fourteen hours have been so draining that this is the first moment I’ve truly had to relax and gather my thoughts.

Not that I’m complaining. Not even close in fact. As draining as the time has been I wouldn’t want to change any of it. For all the effort I’d been kidding myself that I’d been putting into thinking over the past fortnight, I’ve achieved more since breaking down last night than in all the other wasted hours put together. Thanks solely to Sam of course. Perhaps my biggest mistake was thinking I could do it alone. If I’d let Sam in earlier instead of constantly running away I would have saved myself a hell of a lot of heartache. But hey, along with a lot of things, I know that *now*.

Having done it once before, after the wedding, I *thought* I could bring myself back from the brink without help but I was wrong. I’ve changed. I might not have thought about it before but I’ve changed from the person I was then. I’m older, arguably wiser, and possibly more content than I’ve ever been before. And I credit this to not only to Sam but to Malone and CI5 as well. If not for Malone’s invitation I’d either be a decidedly disgruntled SEAL or, and this is more likely, I’d be in the ground. I stayed in the navy for over eighteen months after the wedding and not once throughout that entire time did I feel anything. Not a damn thing. Near misses meant nothing to me, nor did the death of colleagues. I was literally acting on autopilot and autopilot alone. Nothing brought me pleasure, not even sex.

Ironically enough though it was courtesy of sex that I got the kick in the ass I needed to join CI5. Steve was a fellow SEAL. Unlike everyone else on base he’d been stationed elsewhere during the wedding and failed to see why he should pussyfoot around me. For that reason alone I thought he was a good thing. All my old friends went out of their way to treat me with gentleness and kindness yet instead of being grateful I despised them for it. Steve, like me, just didn’t care. We became fuck-buddies for no other reason than it was a means to an end. Neither of us wanted to talk and affection was a word that simply didn’t compute in our vocabularies. Sex was always rough and more often than not I was sore for days afterwards. Not that I cared. Pain was simply something else that I couldn’t feel.

Our relationship lasted for months. In our own twisted way we no doubt took each other for granted. Steve didn’t care that I was emotionally unstable and I didn’t care that I was just a body to him. It worked. Well… That is it worked until Steve’s old buddy Dave arrived on the base for a flying visit. The threesome seemed like a good idea at the time. It did. I can’t say that I didn’t participate willingly. If anything, wanting to show off for Dave, Steve was more gentle than usual. There was no pain involved, I wasn’t ashamed, but…

But it just didn’t seem right somehow. It wasn’t what I wanted from life. Leaving Steve’s I suddenly realised something. It wasn’t that I cared so much as it was that I cared that I didn’t care. As convoluted as that sounds, that’s just how it was. I didn’t care that I’d just had sex with a man I didn’t know and that I couldn’t remember the last time I’d been kissed, but I cared that I didn’t care… And because of this I went straight from Steve’s to the head office to tell them that I was accepting the offer to join CI5. Just like that. As spur of the moment decisions go it was the best one I ever made. Caring still took a long time coming, and it definitely wasn’t a miracle cure, but it was certainly the fresh start that I needed. If I knew where Steve was, and assuming he’d even remember me, I drop him a line to thank him.

To my extreme relief Malone, while clearly not pleased with my behaviour, welcomed me back to CI5 with only the teeniest amount of hesitation. I don’t think I’ll be so fortunate next time however. While Malone made it clear that he didn’t blame me for what happened he also made it equally as plain that he was decidedly unimpressed with how I reacted. The hour I spent in his office, while not one of the most pleasant I’ve spent in my life, was well and truly worth it though. Braced by Sam’s faith in me I even actively listened to Malone’s lecture as opposed to simply letting it fly over my head. His words hit hard, that he was disappointed in me and that the next time I deviated down this path he wouldn’t be so willing to give me a second chance, but I can’t deny that everything he said held varying degrees of truth to it. I *had* fucked up and my behaviour *wasn’t* befitting that of a CI5 agent. When I told Malone that I’d learnt from mistakes I meant it. Contrary to how self absorbed I might become, I’m *not* a fortress and I have to accept the help of people who care about me. As late as this time yesterday I would have claimed that that was easier said than done but now I know better.

Given the state I was in fourteen hours ago, all in all this has been a pretty spectacular day. I survived my meeting with Malone relatively unscathed and now I’m going home to Sam. Life, to my inane delight, is good. The day, beginning with sunrise that is, got off to a good start and like some sort of dream it’s only been getting better as the hours pass. Whether it was due to the sleeping pill or the joy I felt at sharing the bed with Sam, I slept in and didn’t reluctantly crack my eyes open until half-past nine. Sam, always one for thinking ahead, had already called Malone and rescheduled my appointment until later in the afternoon. This meant we were still able to have breakfast in bed and while we ate and picked through the morning papers it was literally as though nothing had ever happened. I was so relaxed and content in fact that when Sam tentatively queried whether I wanted to talk things through some more I readily agreed. Amusingly enough I don’t know who this surprised more, Sam or me.

We stayed in bed while we talked, which was nice. A couple of times I wanted to bolt as things got a little too close for comfort but, and yeah, I am proud of this, I managed to force myself to stay put. Talking about Colton was both the worst and the best of it. The worst because I got agitated over describing how I could still irrationally feel him in my mouth, and the best because Sam promptly kissed me, dismissing all my fears in one long, moist kiss. Just like the first time I was in mid rant when without warning his lips closed over mine, effectively silencing me. He kissed me hard, his tongue probing every corner of my mouth. When he’d finished he murmured that I tasted the same as I always had and that Colton was long gone. If I hadn’t already known Sam was incredibly special then that simple action alone would have convinced me.

I learnt something about Sam this morning too, something I’d never considered before. Although I never would have guessed it, he’s as insecure as I am. When I expressed my disbelief -- Sam? Insecure? Yeah. Pull the other one -- he explained that it had a lot to do with our different backgrounds. Everything I have I was born to and have never been without whereas everything Sam’s got he’s had to work long and hard for. His childhood not being something he’s ever spoken of in great detail before, I’d simply never viewed it as a possible cause for concern. In the grand scheme of things background and so-called good breeding mean less than nothing to me. I know there’s people who base their entire lives around it but I personally couldn’t care less whether my lover had spent his childhood in a house with six bedrooms and holidayed annually in Aspen or whether he’d been brought up in a two bedroom maisonette on the wrong side of the tracks and thought holidays were something only posh folk had.

To Sam, I’m out of his league. I think, once I stopped staring at him with mute disbelief that is, that I’ve now convinced him that he’s got nothing to be afraid of, that his background is of no interest to me and that I love him irregardless of his past.

That’s right. Better late than never, I told him I loved him and that not a day went by that I didn’t thank God for his presence in my life. The way Sam’s face lit up made me wonder why I’d taken so long to say it. For better and for worse, we love each other and -- thankfully I might add -- there now seems to be nothing we can do about it. We both know that while it isn’t always going to be easy it’s nonetheless just the way it’s going to be and that it’s definitely worth it. To believe that it will be nothing but clear skies and smooth sailing from here on in would be nothing but wishful thinking. It won’t be, but a relationship without both parties putting all their heart and soul into it isn’t a relationship at all. And what we have is a relationship. The structure might be prone to cracks but the foundation is rock solid.

Against the odds, and despite my best intentions to rid myself of them, my life once again revolves around CI5 and my partner. It’s enough to make me feel good about myself. I can’t change what happened or the hole I subsequently dug for myself, and I’ll never be able to forget it, but what I can do is relegate it to the past. It’s the least I can do. Hell, I’m even looking forward to seeing Colton again, just so I can show him that he didn’t beat me. Although to him I might be nothing other than stupid I’ve still managed to come out on top. Which is more than can be said for him.

“Here we go, mate, home sweet home,” the cabbie suddenly announces, his voice breaking through my reverie. “That’ll be twenty-eight pound and thirty pence.”

“Thanks,” I murmur, digging two twenties out of my pocket and handing them over to the driver. “Keep the change.”

“Thanks, mate!” the cab driver beams, “another fare like that and I’ll be able to take the wife down to the local for a meal.”

And to think people say romance is dead. Down the local. Wow. Lucky wife. “Here, take her out on me,” I state cheerfully, handing over another twenty and a ten to the amazed looking cabbie. “Go on. Take it. I’m in a good mood and I want to share it around.”

“Thanks,” the driver, his astonishment at my generosity apparently being enough to stop his over use of the word mate. “Might even take her to that French place she’s forever going on about.”

“You do that,” I smile, backing away from the cab and starting to walk towards the front door. “Have a great night!” I add, turning around and waving farewell as I ferret my house key out of my pocket.

Poking his head out the window, the driver replies, “You too!” before reversing out of the drive and driving off. Not really concentrating on what I’m doing, I aim the key in the direction of where I’m sure the keyhole should be and very nearly embed it in Sam’s chest. Ooops. That’ll teach me for not paying attention. I hadn’t even heard the door open.

“I got impatient waiting for you upstairs,” Sam grumbles good naturedly, gesturing me in. “Not to mention I’m being eaten up by curiosity. Come on! How’d it go with Malone? What did he say? Are you back in?”

“Anything else you’d like to know while you’re at it?” I query facetiously, smirking at Sam as I wander past him. “Besides, haven’t you ever heard that curiosity killed the cat saying before?”

“Aaah… But I’ve never claimed to be part of the feline family before, unlike some of us,” Sam retorts blithely, following me up the stairs. “Come on, Chris, the suspense is killing me.”

My desire to put Sam out of his misery being weaker than my need to share the good news, I reach into the inner pocket of my leather jacket and pull out my freshly returned ID card. Grinning, I wave it at Sam. “Does this answer your question?” I murmur lightly.

“You’re back in!” Sam exclaims, bounding up the remaining stairs and grabbing me for a quick hug. “That’s wonderful. I knew you wouldn’t have any problems.”

“Malone’s promised to keep an extra eye on me, but other than that I’m not on any form of probation,” I reply, shrugging as Sam releases me from his embrace. “Nor am I on suspension any longer. What I am on however is sick leave and that’s only until you’re declared fully fit for active. For your information and no doubt relief, we start jumping through hoops in the hope of being passed fit a week Monday. Until then Malone doesn’t want to see us.”

“Excellent,” Sam states happily. “Really, really excellent. We have a little over a week to get our fitness levels to an acceptable point and then we’re back at it again. I for one can’t wait.”

“Mmm… It’ll be good,” I agree as I suddenly deduce there’s a pleasant aroma of cooking food originating from the kitchen. “Speaking of good, what’s cooking? Don’t tell me you’re sick of fries after all?” I continue, laughing as Sam struggles to find something nice to say about my not overly spectacular culinary skills.

“Maybe just a tad,” Sam confesses with a laugh. “It was having them dished up with the otherwise perfectly acceptable stir fry the other night that kinda pushed me over the edge.”

“Pah! That’s what I get for trying to ensure you were getting a balanced diet,” I mock pout, delighted with our easy banter. “I tell you now, next time you’re injured you can drag your battered ass out of bed and cook your own meals!”

“That’s what I love about you, Chris, your warm and giving nature,” Sam retorts, his eyes twinkling with good humour. “Now, before you stalk off in a huff let me attempt to lure you back with the promise of freshly prepared lasagne and garden salad… I can even, if you insist, rustle up a few fries to go with it.”

“Just this once I’ll give up my God given right for fries,” I grin. “Smells good by the way. Perhaps I should leave you home alone more often,” I add teasingly.

“Perhaps you should just quit while you’re ahead,” Sam warns blithely, gesturing in the direction of the sofa. “Why don’t you go and relax? Knowing how much you’ve been enjoying it recently I taped Countdown for you.”

“You *didn’t*?” I snort, shaking my head and choking back laughter.

“I did,” Sam confirms smugly. “It was the last episode with your friend the Doctor Who fan and I knew you wouldn’t want to miss it.”

“You’re too kind,” I laugh, wandering into the living area and sinking down on the sofa. “Okay then, fire it up. Seeing as you’ve gone to the trouble of taping this garbage for me the least I can do is watch the bloody thing.”

“Mmm… Want a coffee first?” Sam queries, moving towards the kitchen, “the kettle had just boiled as I heard the cab pulling into the drive.”

“I’d love one,” I reply, settling myself. If by chance there is a deity watching over the universe then he/she/it is smiling on me. Grabbing the remotes, I turn the TV and the VCR on but mute the sound and don’t start the video. If it involves sitting on the sofa next to Sam and drinking coffee then, hell, I’m suddenly all for Countdown. Perhaps it has a point in life after all.

“Here you go,” Sam states, returning to the living area and handing me a mug of coffee. Although my attention is half diverted by the flickering images of whatever the latest ITV soap is, I notice the mug immediately and stare at it with happy astonishment. It’s a replacement of the Dunoon mug I broke, the one with the ragtag alley-cats on it that I always associated with Sam. Knowing that he’s bought me another one is enough to take my breath away. It’s true, it *is* the thought that counts. However wonderful and precious the gift is, it pales in comparison to the thought and love that went into the purchase and the giving.

“I saw the pieces on the floor,” Sam explains gently, taking a seat next to me, “and, well, as I knew it was your favourite mug I thought I’d better get you another one.”

“Thank you,” I whisper, smiling softly. “It *is* my favourite mug and I was devastated when I broke it. It… Well… It was like the straw that broke the camel’s back to be honest.”

“But now everything’s back as it was, as it’s *meant* to be,” Sam replies quietly. “It may not be exactly the same but I think it’s well back on track, don’t you?”

“Very much so,” I murmur, cradling my mug carefully in my hands and planting a soft kiss on Sam’s cheek.

“Ready to watch Countdown then?” Sam queries, shuffling closer until we’re all but sitting on the same cushion, our legs pressed together.

“Ready as I’ll ever be,” I reply airily, my response being deliberately open to interpretation.

My life being only what I choose to make of it, I’m now ready to ensure that it’s better than it’s ever been.

~ end ~


End file.
